Plausibility
by Night Monkey
Summary: The Scarecrow doesn't care who she is, where she hails from, or where she's going. He just needs a ride. OC but no romance, I can guarantee you that.
1. Taxis and Yugos

Folks, for too long, too many people have been doing it wrong. Some of you may be in the guilty party. Others have merely aided and abetted the guilty, encouraging them to commit further crimes. You know exactly what I'm talking about.

Crane/OC fanfictions!

Lurid tales that lack plot and imagination. Interns who have all the sense of a squirrel that stops in the middle of the road. The Scarecrow with a soul. Paragraphs dedicated to Crane's eye and hair color. No grammar or punctuation to be found. Authors who consider ADHD a mental illness on par with schizophrenia. Nightmares, in other words, numerous and growing in strength each day, like the armies of Mordor.

I'm here to break the cycle. I'm going to attempt the impossible. I set out today to write an original, entertaining, realistic story that features both Crane and an OC. Plot and proper characterization shall be my sole companions. Odysseus and Dante never faced such a journey...

Summary: The Scarecrow doesn't care who you are, where you hail from, or where you're going. He just needs a ride. OC but no romance, I can guarantee you that.

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Chapter 1: Taxis and Yugos

After five minutes of flailing her arms, throwing her hand up in a way that looked dangerously like a Nazi salute, and flapping like a wounded bird, a taxi finally got the message. The cab pulled to the curb and Danielle practically yanked the door off its hinges. She threw her abused suitcase into the car, got in herself with only slightly less violence, and slammed the door hard enough to earn her raised eyebrows from the cabbie.

"I'm guessing you have somewhere to be in a hurry," he said.

"My grandma's turning 80 today and if I don't get there in twenty minutes, she'll spend her birthday with just her cat!"

"Ten dollar tip and the speed limit doesn't mean jack."

"Deal."

Danielle gave the lawless cabby the address and he sped off from the crowded airport. She checked her watch. Nineteen minutes and counting. Maybe she'd get lucky and Grandma Sophia's jazzercise program would run a little late. Granny did love her jazzercise; in their last phone call, she'd bragged to Danielle that, at 79 years and 363 days, she was the fittest and most flexible in her class.

"Where'd you fly in from?" The cabbie asked.

"Seattle. I should have landed two hours ago; my flight was delayed because it's apparently monsoon season in the Washington. I have never seen such rain in all my life," Danielle said.

"You flew all that way just to wish your grandmother a happy birthday? I bet you're her favorite grandkid."

"I'm the only grandkid, so I guess she doesn't have much choice. It's either me or my uncle's Shar-pei. But my grandfather died a few months ago, and I feel awful leaving her alone all the time. I mean, I grew up in Gotham, and no offense, but I couldn't stand to get old here. Especially not by myself."

The cabbie said, "Can't blame you. My ex-wife lit out for Ohio last year. Said she couldn't stand living in a one-bedroom apartment any longer. Creepy guy that followed her home one night didn't do the marriage any good, either. But hey, this isn't about me. This is about Grandma, uh, what was it?"

"Sophia. Born in Gotham, and unless she's dragged out in cuffs, she'll stay here the rest of her life. She keeps up the jazzercise she'll live longer than me," Danielle said.

"There's no way I'm letting you miss a jazzercise-loving grandmother's birthday. Hang tight and hope the boys in blue are busy someplace else."

Before Danielle could respond, the cabbie channeled the spirit of James Bond and changed from a mild-mannered driver into danger on four wheels. Danielle found her arms wrapped around her suitcase as though it was a life preserver as the cab maneuvered in ways that stretched the laws of physics to the breaking point. The cab slid through gaps in traffic that hardly looked big enough for a motor-scooter to pass, swerved around slower vehicles, and neatly bypassed a red light by entering a narrow, empty side street.

As the cab continued on its reckless path, Danielle risked another peek at her watch. Twelve minutes now. She might actually make it, always assuming the car didn't crash into a brick wall and kill her instantly.

"Six blocks to go and we're making great time. Don't worry, you'll get there."

"I really appreciate it, but maybe you'd better- Jesus, watch out for that horse!"

The cabbie slammed on the brakes and the tires squealed. Danielle was thrown forward and her suitcase was pressed painfully against her chest. The emergency landing instructions from the airplane--pretty much grab your ankles, tuck in your head, pray to your personal god and kiss your ass good-bye--played through her head. She did not want her last thoughts to be "and in case of cabin decompression, oxygen masks will drop down in front of you".

The taxi had been serviced often and well. Its brakes were only weeks old, and were able to bring the car to a rough stop only feet from the horse. The cabbie, his heart revving like a motorcycle engine, almost collapsed from relief. He was not dead, his car was not destroyed and his boss was not going to chew him up and spit him out.

The horse also realized just how close it had come to meeting its maker. Panicked by the car and the smoke rising from the tires, the horse reared up and pawed the air. The unfortunate rider gave the reins a harsh yank in a vain attempt to bring the animal back under control. He could do nothing at that point except dismount before the horse threw him off. He slid off the horse's bucking back and managed to land on his feet.

"You okay back there?" The cabbie asked. He felt like he was talking through a mouthful of cotton.

"I think I'm gonna cry," Danielle said.

"Me too."

The terrified horse bolted from the street to the sidewalk. The few pedestrians that dared to be outdoors once the sun set scattered. Hopefully someone would have the intelligence to call the police before the animal either ran someone down or was hit by a vehicle that failed to stop in time.

"Why the hell was there a _horse_ running down the middle of the road?" The cabbie said.

"Was someone riding it? I thought I saw someone, but-"

Something heavy collided with Danielle's door. Her whole body, wired on adrenaline and fear, jerked violently. They'd missed the horse! What could possibly have run into them?

"Open the door,"

The rider, of course. He was banging at the window, and he sounded righteously pissed. Danielle might have actually reached for the door handle had the driver not started shouting.

"Get away from my goddamn cab before I run your pony-riding ass over! Are you retarded or something?" The cabbie raged.

Instead of backing off or offering an explanation--if it was at all possible to explain why he was running around Gotham on a farm animal--the rider turned towards the front door. He found it locked and the cabbie smirked and flipped him the bird. If this joker thought he was getting in, he was sorely mistaken.

"How do you like that, shit-head?"

Shit-head apparently didn't like it much, because his face appeared in the window like a grim apparition. Only it couldn't be labeled a proper human face. There was no definite facial structure, no nose, only holes through which enraged eyes peered, and a mouth sewn shut with rough stitching.

Danielle let out a horrified shriek before coming to the realization that she was only seeing a horrible mask. The driver apparently recognized the mask for what it was, because he looked more disgusted than startled. His middle finger didn't waiver, that was for sure.

"Yeah, Halloween was six months ago. That mask looks like crap, just so you know. Goddamn potato sack you cut up and reassembled or something."

Something much harder than a fist thumped against the driver-side window, cracking the glass. The cabbie let loose an amazing volley of swears. Danielle was by no means a prude or a saint, but she had never before heard half of the terms, and she was sure at least a few were totally original. The one about using a food processor as a sexual orifice had to be.

The same object was slammed against the window, this time shattering the glass. A few fragments of the pulverized window landed in her lap and on her shoes. Danielle gasped and pushed herself to the opposite end of the seat.

"You've done it now, buddy. I hope you know a really good dentist."

The cabbie shoved open his door, nearly hitting the masked assailant with it. Danielle hadn't been able to judge the driver's height while he had been seated, but now she could make a pretty good estimate. She put him at an inch or so over six feet, and definitely heavier than the man who had broken the window. Unless that scrawny masked freak could outrun the fuming taxi driver, he was going to be smeared on the pavement.

"Get back in your seat and open the back doors," The man in the mask ordered.

"You really are a moron, aren't you? I'm going to smash your face so badly your own mother won't recognize you."

"If you insist on doing it the hard way, I will happily oblige you."

The driver drew back his fist. Before he could punch some sense into the crazy horseman, he found a gun pointed directly at his face. He hadn't considered that the object the idiot had hammered against the window might have been more dangerous than a rock or chunk of brick. Now he was the wiser and in a far worse position than he could have imagined a minute ago when he had been so eager to break some bones.

"As this gun is positioned now, if I were to fire, you would lose your frontal lobe, Broca's area, the motor cortex, somatosensory cortex, and a large portion of your temporal lobe. If by some misfortune that did not kill you, you would be in a vegetative state with consciousness, speech, movement and emotional response all far beyond you. Would you like to experience that?"

"Shit no."

"Then open the doors. You cost me my horse, so you're going to drive me."

"I already have a passenger."

"Now you'll have two."

Wary of the gun, and of losing whatever Broca's area was, the cabbie returned to his taxi. Like most modern cars, the doors could all be locked or opened automatically with a single button. Before he pressed the button, the driver looked back at Danielle.

"Sorry about your party," he said.

"Not your fault," Danielle assured him.

The locks disengaged and before Danielle could think to open the door she was sitting against and run for it, the masked man was in the cab with her. She scrunched her legs back and drew them up against her chest. She put her battered suitcase in front of her like a shield.

"Drive."

"Drive where?"

"Just get out of the area for now. I will decide on a final destination depending on how things progress."

"Can I let her off first? It's only six blocks and she's got someplace to be."

"You can either do as I tell you or you will be driving with a corpse," the man said.

"Don't be so dramatic. We're already rolling."

Danielle whimpered and the masked man turned towards her. With only a suitcase and a little empty seat between them, Danielle couldn't help but notice the eclectic costume the man was wearing. He had a suit on, definitely not the usual getup for thugs or for equestrians, either. The mask he wore was far stranger than the suit, however. At this distance, Danielle could tell it wasn't rubber or plastic like almost all Halloween masks, but was made of burlap. It was stitched together like Frankenstein's monster and it was the singularly most odious thing she'd ever seen on someone's head.

"Does my mask frighten you?"

"No. I think it's ugly as a baboon's ass, but that's just my opinion," the driver said.

"I wasn't talking to you, and if that is the extent of your conversational skills, I won't be engaging you any time soon."

"Bite me, buddy. Nobody's afraid of you or that sack or your vocabulary."

"Do you not know who I am?"

"Oh, I know well enough. Only one freak in this city dresses up like a scarecrow. I guess the idea never caught on among the other trash. You're like the Yugo of criminals."

The Scarecrow pointed his gun at Danielle. She raised her suitcase up, putting it between her and the muzzle. In the rational part of her brain, she knew the plastic body of the suitcase wouldn't stop a bullet anymore than it would stop a guided missile. Logical thoughts hardly mattered now, though. She would have put up a newspaper or magazine shield if she'd had either of those two things available.

"Are you afraid of me?" the Scarecrow asked.

"You don't have to ask," Danielle replied. There was no way for him to miss the way her arms were shaking. She had never been so afraid in her whole life.

"One of you may survive the night, then."

Danielle wasn't exactly comforted by the Scarecrow's words. As she would learn within the hour, she was right to doubt his sincerity.

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HoistTheColours, this is for you. I hope it pleases you.

And no, I don't care how self-righteous it sounds. I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore.


	2. Differing Philosophies

I'm incredibly pleased by all you reviewers. Firstly, I'm glad you thought this was good enough to deserve a minute of your time. Secondly, I'm glad I'm not the only author bitter over all the, shall we say, less than dazzling Crane/OC stories out there. Nice to find I'm not some angry whack-job fighting single-handedly against the system. Thank you, most sincerely, for reviewing and for putting up with _me_.

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"So, are you going to pay me for driving your ass around or is my meter running just for the hell of it?"

The Scarecrow didn't respond. He had quickly learned that everything coming from the driver's mouth was completely useless and a large percent of the drivel was an unwise attempt to annoy his masked passenger. The cabbie obviously didn't realize that his grave was dug and he was merely making the end worse for himself.

"I'll just explain to my boss why my fare's so short. Or maybe I can claim a deduction on my taxes. Hey, do the dirt-bags in this city file income tax? I mean, I gotta give Uncle Sam a chunk and I'm making forty grand a year. You guys rob banks, take _my_ money, and don't give back shit."

Danielle was beginning to wish the cabbie would shut his mouth. It wasn't that she didn't admire his bravery, because she certainly didn't have the guts to sass the Scarecrow herself. It was just that a bullet would take a nanosecond to reach her and she didn't want to die in the back of a taxi.

"Do you know what else really ticks me off? Sales tax. I bet you don't pay that, either. Nah, you probably stole that suit and snatched the burlap from...well, I don't know where. I never had to buy burlap."

"Turn left here, and don't pay any mind to the homeless man who will attempt to leap onto the hood. His mind is riddled with holes from a lifetime of drug abuse," the Scarecrow said.

"Holy shit, it talks. Here I was hoping you'd gone mute back there, buddy."

The cab easily darted through a break in traffic and entered a one-way street. It was obvious that the city budget hadn't trickled down to this particular section of roadway. There were potholes large enough to swallow toddlers, enough trash to choke miles of beach, and, just as the Scarecrow had warned, a homeless man living in a cardboard box. When the taxi's headlights caught the man, he rushed forth from his makeshift home like an insane guerilla fighter. He threw himself at the car.

"Honk the horn at him."

The blast of noise drove the crazed man from the car. Before he could recover or jump on the back bumper, the driver sped off.

"That is why people generally avoid the dark alleys of Gotham. You never know who or what you may come across."

"You knew that guy or I'm Freddy Prince Junior," the cabbie said.

"Yes, I knew him for a few weeks while I was a doctor at Arkham. He was sent to me for evaluation, you see. He had attacked a group of children who had been playing with firecrackers. The noise no doubt frightened him. He has a severe case of ligyrophobia, as well as a violent streak," the Scarecrow replied.

"Why isn't he getting treatment, then? One of these days, he's going to get run over," Danielle said, surprising herself by speaking.

The Scarecrow smirked at what he considered to be Danielle's incredible naiveté. He wasn't sure where she hailed from--she didn't seem to be in the high state of alarm most intelligent women in Gotham had adopted to keep from falling prey to the city's dangers--but he assumed it was a kinder place. A place where money was actually set aside for programs to help the less fortunate and a place where showing compassion was not like hemorrhaging in shark-infested waters.

"I deemed him sane at the time, so he likely spent a year or so in prison and was then released. He was of no interest once he was free, and destroyed himself with any chemical he could get his hands on. And as far at his wellbeing is concerned, it would be much cheaper to run him down like a dog than to rehabilitate him," the Scarecrow said.

"But he's a _human being_. A sick human being," Danielle insisted.

"Have you ever walked through the Narrows at night, and just listened to the sounds of its residents? Men and women living, if I pay borrow from Thoreau, lives of quiet desperation. People who are in constant _fear_ of their neighbors, their lovers, their own grim futures. In a city like that, what are human beings supposed to do?"

Danielle had never walked through the Narrows period, let alone at night. Her mother had been very vehement about safety. Her mother had also been very vehement about the general goodness of humanity. Sometimes it seemed like the two ideas were incompatible: if people were good, why did she have to be afraid one would grab her and drag her into a dark alley? Right now, the ideas seemed mutually exclusive.

"But social responsibility-"

The Scarecrow actually laughed at the absurdity of it, and the sound made both Danielle and the cabbie flinch. The driver had heard some weird sounds in his day--once his toilet had blocked up and he'd swear before the throne of the Almighty he'd heard the plumbing gurgling out a very wet but recognizable version of _Ode to Joy_--but that masked loony's laugh put the musical toilet to shame. Danielle felt her skin break out in goose bumps.

"You come from a much more affluent, liberal place, don't you? San Francisco, maybe?" The Scarecrow asked.

"I come from Gotham."

"You may have been born here, but you haven't set foot in this city in quite a while. Five years, at least. You've lost your natural fear of the city, I can tell."

Danielle had to say she was flabbergasted. One minute this man was threatening her with a gun, the next he was subjecting her to his nihilistic philosophy. What was he going to do now, offer to read her horoscope?

"I've been living in Seattle, actually."

"Ah, the Pacific Northwest. Home of Starbucks, Bigfoot sightings, and an inordinate number of serial killers. I suppose it's cleaner than Gotham, at least," the Scarecrow said.

"I bet it's also got fewer people who feel the need to dress up like clowns and scarecrows and take shit that doesn't belong to them. I'd rather have a dozen regular crazies than one freak in a corny costume," the driver said.

The Scarecrow was miffed by the cabbie's continual back-handed comments about his costume. The suit most certainly hadn't been stolen and it hadn't been cheap, either. He'd been the most brilliant mind to ever treat—if the term 'treat' could also apply to performing horrifying and oftentimes painful experiments—patients at Arkham. He'd dressed accordingly. After his fall from grace, he saw no reason to lose the suits.

Attacking his mask was far worse than attacking his taste in clothing. It wasn't just something to keep his face hidden from security cameras, like ski masks and more common disguises were. The mask was a symbol for Crane's darker side, his Scarecrow half. It was meant to strike fear into the hearts of his victims even before he really got down to business. It was a shame the witless cab-driver was too dense to see any of that. It could and would be helped, though.

"You know, I've seen peoples' _dogs_ dressed up in scarier Halloween costumes. My buddy has this big goddamn St. Bernard and he dressed the thing up as Cujo. He threw fake blood all over it and smeared some shaving cream on its muzzle. That dog sent the neighborhood kids screaming! Those same kids would throw rocks at you."

"You weren't in the Narrows the day it all went to hell, were you?" The Scarecrow asked. If the cabbie had been there on that glorious day of fear and panic, he probably wouldn't be acting so belligerently now.

"The Narrows have been going to hell for a lot of days. You've got to be a little more specific. Which day in particular are we talking about?"

Danielle was pretty sure she knew which date the Scarecrow meant. Though she'd been living in Seattle since starting high-school, her grandmother loved to keep her in the loop. Last year, Danielle's day had been interrupted by a remarkably calm call from Granny Sophia. As though she was telling her granddaughter about a new post office being opened, Sophia explained that the city was in the grips of some sort of terroristic chemical weapons attack. Danielle had nearly gone into hysterics, begging her grandmother to lock the doors, cover the vents, turn on emergency broadcasts, stockpile food, and duct tape around the window frames to keep any poison from seeping into the room. Grandma Sophia had replied that it was a little late to hoard food and that it wasn't her neighborhood that was under attack. All that jazzercise really must have helped her keep a level head.

"Don't belittle my accomplishments!" The Scarecrow said.

"I wouldn't exactly call poisoning a bunch of lower class families an 'accomplishment'. That's kind of like beating up an old man and being proud of it," the cabbie replied.

The Scarecrow was getting less and less pleasant to be around. That was saying something, because originally he was about as great a travel companion as a sack of rotting fish heads would have been. Danielle was wishing her plane had never taken off at all. She was sure she'd rather spend the next six months in airport limbo than spend the rest of the night sitting next to a maniac.

"Of course, a guy who looks like you couldn't exactly win in a fair physical fight, huh? I mean, you're short and scrawny and a sissy."

The gun went off, nearly scaring Danielle and the driver into heart attacks. She screamed and he swore and jerked the steering wheel, almost careening the taxi into a stretch of chain link fence. Danielle's ears were ringing and her heart thrashed around inside her chest. She wasn't sure if she had been shot, and if she had been, she was too in shock to feel it.

"Jesus, did you shoot her? Hey, are you alright back there? You son of a bitch, I'll pull your head off if she's hurt. Lady, please, don't be dead."

With trembling hands, Danielle patted and prodded her body, checking for injury. Her abdomen, chest and face all proved intact. If the Scarecrow had shot at her intentionally, he'd missed. If he'd just been trying to scare her with a warning shot, he'd done an exceptional job of it.

"I think I'm okay," Danielle said. Her voice sounded as tiny and petrified as the squeak of a hunted mouse.

"Consider that the last reprieve I will give either of you," the Scarecrow said.

He'd fired the bullet straight through the roof, nowhere near either his fellow passenger or the driver. The only bystander that had been damaged was the unlit sign on the roof that let everyone know the yellow vehicle driving aimlessly around was indeed a taxi. A large portion of the plastic sign had been blown off, reducing 'TAXI' to 'AX'. If the Scarecrow had seen this ominous message, he might have gotten a chuckle out of it.

"I'll give you a boot up the ass you sick little-"

"Please don't antagonize him anymore!" Danielle begged.

The cabbie's hands tightened on the wheel. He wanted to wring the Scarecrow's neck, run him over a few times, and then throw the flattened carcass out in front of police headquarters. Right now, though, he'd have to control his temper. Easier said than done.

"Sorry, ma'am. I'll leave the straw-man alone."

"You are an exquisite example of a man who relies heavily on his primitive brain," the Scarecrow noted.

"And you…you need to give me some directions here. I know guys like you don't care about the problems of Joe the Cabbie, but gas ain't cheap and we're just burning it for nothing."

"I _was_ enjoying our leisurely drive, but if you'd like to get to the end-"

"Two dollars and eighty cents a gallon and rising."

"-then I suppose we can all go home."

Without explaining what kind of home served as his roost, the Scarecrow pointed at a street and the cab turned right. Danielle tried to remember this part of town. Almost a decade removed from Gotham and her mental map had some holes in it. She could vaguely remember eating at an Italian restaurant in the general area, but exact street names and addresses evaded her.

"I'm going to assume you know this city like I know Jung's archetypes, so I don't need to tell you exactly how to drive. Just head for the Narrows and watch out for the destitute. Some of them have proven useful in their own pitiful ways, and I'd hate to see good research wasted."

"I'd like to waste your head with a baseball bat," the cabbie muttered, too low for his passengers to hear.

While the driver navigated towards the slums of Gotham, Danielle came to the realization that her legs were beginning to cramp. It wasn't surprising, given that they'd been bent up like the limbs of a contortionist in a position that was far from comfortable. Under normal circumstances, she would simply stretch out until blood flow was restored. Unfortunately, normal circumstances did not exist. Sitting in the space she needed for an effective stretch was an angry man with a bag on his head. He didn't look as though he'd welcome a pair of sneakers suddenly dropped onto his lap.

Danielle tried shifting just an inch of so, mostly to test if the Scarecrow would get annoyed at her movement. He looked like the kind of man who would get annoyed if a wayward molecule of oxygen drifted by his face. He didn't aim his gun at her and shoot her between the eyes, so maybe he hadn't noticed.

"Are you uncomfortable?"

So much for hope.

"I'm not getting very good circulation in this position," Danielle replied.

"I suppose you're experiencing unpleasant pins-and-needles tingling in your feet, aren't you?"

"A little bit, yes."

"After you're forced to wear a straightjacket while a two-bit cop manhandles your most precious possession, I may care a bit more," the Scarecrow said. He then looked out the window and forgot about Danielle entirely.

Danielle decided that she'd just have to suck it up and endure a while longer. If her feet fell asleep, so what? They'd wake up once she had a chance to get out of the cab and limber up. It wouldn't be _that_ much longer.

The power of positive thinking. Her mother was big on that, too.

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Ligyrophobia is the fear of loud noises.

The Scarecrow is quoting from _Walden_ by Henry David Thoreau.


	3. Elvis Has Left the Building

Thank you, thank you, thank you for the reviews! I'm awestruck at the responses. I'll do my damnedest to do this right.

And for all those concerned about the cabbie, I have no idea what's going to happen to him in the end. I didn't plan that far ahead… I'm very fond of him but the Scarecrow isn't. We'll see who wins out.

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To keep her mind off the growing numbness in her legs, Danielle looked out the window. As the cab moved on, the city decayed before her eyes. The well-kept homes and prosperous businesses were slowly replaced with crowded and drab apartment complexes. Abandoned buildings that should have been demolished years ago stood as testaments to Gotham's continual economic and social woes. As the buildings became more derelict, so did every other aspect of the neighborhoods: the cars, the people, the road beneath their wheels.

"I hate this part of town," the cabbie said to no one in particular.

"Most everyone hates the Narrows. The people fortunate enough to live elsewhere hate it for its criminals and the poor image it gives the city. The people who live here hate it because they have to call it home. I have a fondness for the dump, myself," the Scarecrow said.

"Could it be because the hookers are desperate enough to-"

"You said you wouldn't get him angry! Believe me, that will piss him off," Danielle said.

"By all means, let him finish. He's nearly at the end of his road, so I won't begrudge him a few remarks. After all, according to the Kübler-Ross model, anger is the second stage of grief," the Scarecrow said.

"I'm not near the end of anything, ass-hat," the driver snapped.

"Denial is the first stage."

"As soon as I get a chance, I'm going to yank that stupid mask off your head and make you eat it!"

"Back to anger, I see."

"Give me five minutes alone in a room with you and I'd show you anger like you never saw before. I learned how to get mad from the best of them; my grandmother was Sicilian! She used to chase me around with a rolling pin when I got her floor dirty."

"Yes, that would make sense. Childhood traumas are often the culprit behind many actions adults take."

Danielle found the tangible despair of the Narrows nowhere near as distracting as the increasingly loud and belligerent exchange between the cabbie and the Scarecrow. She didn't want to be caught staring at the intellectual burlap sack, but he was like a talking psychology textbook. She'd known people who were well-versed and passionate about things, but the Scarecrow seemed like a human encyclopedia of all matters of the mind.

"If that's true, then what happened to you as a kid? The dog, cat, and goldfish take turns calling you anti-Semitic names after Mom and Dad roughed you up?"

The Scarecrow's hands clenched and Danielle knew a nerve had been struck. She wished she could draw herself farther from the villain, but the car door proved indifferent of her plight. Stupid solid objects and their apathetic, close-knit molecular structures.

"That's it, isn't it? I figured out what made the Scarecrow hide inside a potato sack! His pets verbally abused him. So, I guess that would make you Dr. Dolittle, wouldn't it?" the cabbie said.

The Scarecrow hadn't wanted to murder someone with his own hands and at a very leisurely pace this badly in quite some time. Luckily, it was only blocks to his current hideout. In just a few more minutes, he'd be able to deal with the irksome cabbie. As for what he'd do with the woman, he wasn't sure yet. Oh, she would certainly become a useful test subject: she was young, healthy-looking and already quite frightened of him. It was her ultimate fate he was still pondering. All the options—death, insanity, a swift kick out the door after a day or two—were all still on the table.

"Stop that incessant bovine lowing and turn right at the corner," the Scarecrow said.

"Huh? Look, I graduated high-school and all that, but I don't read the thesaurus in my spare time. If you want to insult a working man, trying calling him a prick or telling him he looks like Richard Simmons."

Danielle, who had struggled through a full year of community college before realizing her degree would cost more than it was worth, kindly translated for the cabbie.

"He called you a mooing cow," she explained.

"That insult would work better if I was a woman worried about the diameter of my ass. Men don't really care about being cows," the driver said.

While the Scarecrow seethed like a volcano on the cusp of eruption, the cabbie smirked. He was pretty sure he was in deep shit but he'd be damned before he'd let the freak in the back seat win. It was his duty as a red-blooded, down-trodden, mad-as-hell Gothamite to give these costumed freaks a hard time. And he had never been one to shirk his duty.

The cabbie turned as ordered and entered a street where most of the asphalt had been consumed by the potholes. The taxi bounced up and down like a pimped out Cadillac, though without the decibel-pounding subwoofer. If he got away from the Scarecrow alive, the cabbie was going to march into City Hall, grab the first bureaucrat he found, and patch a few holes with the sniveling jerk-off.

"Jesus Christ, you could have warned me the street looked like Bagdad. Do you know how much stress this is putting on the suspension system?" the driver demanded.

"You're getting off in half a block. Take a left," the Scarecrow said.

"I can't. There's a big red sign clearly telling me not to enter. There's also an arrow pointing right with the words "one way" on it."

"Take a left."

"If there's a cop around and I get a ticket, you're going to pay for it."

"Left. Now."

The taxi broke the law and drove the wrong way up the one-way street. Mercifully, there were no police or other motorists coming down the right way.

"Keep straight at the intersection, drive down five blocks, and pull into the alley on the right," the Scarecrow instructed.

Driving through the intersection didn't take long, but they were delayed upon entering the street by a man who was seven ways to crazy. He was tall and lithe, his face was obscured by the tightly-pulled hood of his jacket, and he was clutching a carving knife. He stood in the middle of the road like a macabre crossing guard, blocking the taxi.

"I wish Victor would find some other hunting ground. He's beginning to make a nuisance of himself, and after all the work I did to have him declared mentally unfit to stand trial," the Scarecrow muttered.

The cabbie leaned out the window a little, and shouted, "Hey, can I borrow that knife for a minute? I got a bag of straw in the back seat I wouldn't mind having cut open."

"I wouldn't suggest that, not with a woman in the car," the Scarecrow said.

The cabbie looked back at Danielle and then frowned. "Oh shit. Yeah, letting a maniac with a knife near her would be stupid. Hold on to something, then."

The driver stomped on the gas pedal and the taxi shot forward. To avoid being flattened like a slow-moving possum, the knife-wielding psycho was forced to leap out of the way. With his prey already at the end of the block and speeding up, the killer decided to find some poor sap that lacked wheels.

"Let that be a warning for both of you. If by some strange occurrence you manage to escape me, remember what else is lurking in the neighborhood," the Scarecrow said.

Gotham had definitely changed, and not for the better, since she'd left. Yes, it had still been a wretched, crime-infested, economically stunted, polluted, and generally broken city back then. But at least the criminals had never worn anything more extravagant than black baggy sweatshirts and the occasional ski mask. Now they were apparently running around in all kinds of weird getups. Maybe they'd just gotten more creative with the color schemes and the headgear. Or maybe they'd all gotten crazier.

"You really have the best friends, you know that, burlap boy. A weirdo living in a box and some equally nutty bastard running around with a knife. You know anybody who barks like a dog or who thinks he's Elvis or Paul McCartney or any of that interesting shit?"

"It is far rarer than fiction suggests to find someone who genuinely believes he is Napoleon Bonaparte or Jesus. Neither I nor any doctor I know has ever encountered a patient who claims to be Elvis, a Beatle or any other celebrity."

"What about one of those split-personality people? You have any of those in Arkham? Or those people who just drool all day. It's not a coma, it's, uh, _catatonic_. Any of those? How about-"

"It's an asylum, not Wal-mart," the Scarecrow said. "It isn't as though we tried to stock the shelves with disorders."

"You got plenty of psychopaths; I don't need to ask about them. I saw one in the middle of the road a minute ago."

"His actual diagnosis was narcissistic personality disorder, specifically of the fanatic subtype. The man has a God complex. Or perhaps Angel of Death complex would be more proper."

"Like I said, you've got great friends," the cabbie said.

"Turn here and park next to the dumpster."

"I'm not parking near that thing! The rats will crawl out of there, get up inside the engine, and eat the insulation off the wires and all the rubber tubes," the driver protested.

"Your taxi should be the least of your worries. Park and stay seated until I give you further instruction."

"And keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times."

"Get it out of your system now."

Muttering under his breath about how little he wanted to find rats making nests in his cab, the driver reluctantly parked by the overflowing dumpster. As he suspected, the trash pile was full of vermin and bugs. He could see them scurry from the bright glare of the headlights.

"Turn off the engine and hand me the keys," the Scarecrow ordered. He held out an open palm and waited expectantly.

"That's four hundred ways against regulations," the cabbie replied.

"I will make sure your boss never finds out. Now give them to me before someone, namely your pleasant young passenger, is maimed."

The cabbie pulled the keys from the ignition and handed them back to the Scarecrow. He pocketed them. He then turned to Danielle.

"Open the door and get out. If you run, I will shoot you. If I miss, I will shoot the driver."

Danielle nodded in compliance and felt behind her for the door handle. It had been digging into her back hard enough to leave a painful impression. Pulling the handle was difficult in her awkward position but she eventually managed to gain leverage. The door swung open and Danielle, who had been pressed so tightly against it, suddenly found her support gone. She tumbled out of the cab, landing hard on her back and shoulders. She barely avoided knocking her head against the asphalt.

"Clumsy thing, I see. Here, don't forget your luggage." The Scarecrow picked up her carryon suitcase and callously tossed it at her. The bag landed on Danielle's chest. She grunted when the stuffed suitcase struck her.

"Hey, handrail, didn't your mother ever teach you to treat women with respect?" the cabby asked.

"Did your mother have any children worth the labor pains?" the Scarecrow replied.

While Danielle pushed her bag off her and sat up, the Scarecrow pointed his gun at the cabbie. "Don't move."

Danielle rubbed her aching back and groaned. Six and a half hours on a plane, an hour scrunched up in a taxi with a maniac, and then a nice fall to round it out. Her poor spine was sick of the abuse, and letting her know it. All she could do was promise herself a day at the spa getting massaged by a well-muscled, blond hunk who had magic fingers. That helped a little.

The Scarecrow exited the taxi and walked to the front end of it. He motioned for the cabbie to get out. The cabbie considered disobeying just to piss with the Scarecrow, then decided it wasn't worth getting shot over. God willing, there'd be more opportunities to make the little runt miserable.

"If your skull isn't fractured, stand up," the Scarecrow ordered.

"What if my back's broken?" Danielle asked. Then she mentally kicked herself. The cabbie had been allowed to wisecrack because he drove the taxi and he was probably a little crazy. She was not going to get such a privilege.

"Then lay there and let the rats eat you."

As though summoned, a rat roughly the size of a newborn infant ran squeaking from the dumpster. If she saw mice and rats in a pet store, with a sheet of glass separating them from her, Danielle was fine with them. When they were grown to enormous proportions and free to spread their diseases where they pleased, she wanted to call the exterminator.

"Okay, okay, I'm coming." Danielle got to feet, winced as something in her back cracked, and picked up her suitcase.

Once Danielle got to the front of the taxi, the Scarecrow ordered both her and the cabbie to start walking down the alley. It was almost as dark as the ocean abyss in the alley. Danielle and the driver were forced to shuffle their feet to avoid tripping over any unseen detritus. The Scarecrow was much more comfortable, having a perfect mental map of the alley.

"About ten paces ahead, you will come to a door. It will be locked."

As promised, the door appeared. The cabbie, trailing his fingers along the wall of the alley to keep his bearings, felt solid metal instead of rough brick. He stopped and Danielle soon bumbled into him.

"You may want to make a mental record of this. That may be, after all, the last door either of you enters alive," the Scarecrow said.

Keeping his gun trained on his two soon-to-be test subjects, the Scarecrow fished around in his pockets for the key to the door. He located it and stuck it in the lock. The lock disengaged and he prodded his reluctant prisoners to their fate.

1111111111111111111

Enough psychology mumbo-jumbo for everyone? Yeah, I thought so.


	4. Science Fiction

Sorry this took longer than expected. I caught a nasty bug and spent three days hacking up my lungs. Not nice, not pleasant.

On the note of nasty things, if the anonymous reviewer known as BITCHGIRL is lurking about, thanks for the chuckles. I hope you realize just how stupid you made yourself look. Honestly, you have the brain of something amoeboid.

To all the other reviewers, you have the brains of highly evolved and sentient beings. You guys are beyond incredible. I can't believe the responses this story is getting. I'm flattened. Thank you all so much.

1111111111111111

The door opened not into Hell or a torture chamber or a room where the lampshades were made out of human skin, but into a badly lit and poorly maintained flight of stairs. Danielle noticed a weary and blinking emergency exit sign over the door. Apparently, when the building had been inhabited by paying tenants, the back-alley exit had been the route to take in case of fires or other disasters. Now it served as an unnoticed entrance for the Scarecrow, and whatever unlucky souls he'd found during his nightly skulking.

"I can't climb those stairs," the cabbie said.

"And why not?"

"Because I'm too fat and out of shape. I sit on my ass all day and I don't have a wife to bitch about the love handles anymore, so what do you expect?"

"Not everyone at Arkham fell within their recommended weight ranges, but with the proper motivation, they moved. Of course, if you do by some misfortune suffer a cardiac episode, I will take full responsibility," the Scarecrow said.

"Cardiac episode? Jesus, even heart attacks have to be politically correct now?"

"If it will get you up those stairs, I will take full responsibility should you suffer a myocardial infarction in which the cardiac muscle is deprived of oxygen and subsequently dies."

"Don't torture me anymore with your big words! I'm walking."

"And what about you? Do you have any disabilities that would prevent you from climbing stairs? A prosthetic limb or bathmophobia, perhaps?" the Scarecrow asked.

Danielle shrunk away until her back collided with the wall. Her overstressed muscles let her knew that they were not pleased with the treatment. She was barely able to avoid wincing. Showing pain to the Scarecrow had to be akin to showing weakness to a lioness that was trying to weed out the slowest member of the herd.

She might have been able to hide her grimace of discomfort, but the Scarecrow seized her obvious fear. Danielle had retreated at the mere sound of his voice. That only encouraged the Scarecrow to induce _real_ panic.

He stepped towards Danielle and she pressed against the wall despite the jabs of pain along her spine. As the menacing masked man drew closer, Danielle found her breath seizing in her throat. It felt like an object roughly the size of a softball was blocking her airways. She had never suffered an asthma attack, but she was quite sure this was what one had to feel like.

"What's there to be frightened of?" the Scarecrow taunted.

Danielle let out a strangled wheeze. She'd sell her soul to be back in Seattle, back on the airplane, even back in the taxi. Hell, she'd sell her soul to be stranded in the dankest, most crime infested alley in Gotham. Anywhere had to be better than here.

"Remember, there is nothing to fear but Fear himself!"

She couldn't breathe, her heart was trying to burst through her chest like one of the creatures from _Alien_, and her knees were suddenly as supportive as wet newspaper. Danielle hardly realized that she was sliding down to the floor. As her legs gave way, the Scarecrow loomed larger, towering over her. He rarely had a height advantage over his male victims, so he intended to use it here.

Just as the Scarecrow filled all but her peripheral vision and she thought she would faint, the burlap mask was yanked away. Danielle could have sobbed with relief if her throat had been working correctly. As was, all she could do was emit another squeak that served to carry next to no oxygen to her starving lungs.

The cabbie, his hands clutching the back of the Scarecrow's shirt, dragged the fearsome villain away from Danielle. Before the Scarecrow could figure out exactly how he had ended up eight feet from his cowering victim, the driver shoved him to the ground. Instead of kicking the scrawny man's ass like he so desperately wanted to, the cabbie turned to Danielle.

She was definitely having a panic attack. As his marriage came toppling down like a flaming house of cards, his wife had suffered a few similar fits. He'd learned through necessity how to best help.

"It's okay. You just have to breathe, alright? Passing out would not be a good idea right now," the cabbie said.

He crouched down in front of Danielle so he would be at her eye level. His perfectly human and unmasked face taking the place of the Scarecrow's grotesque form helped calm Danielle down a little. She still looked as scared as a baby bird that had fallen from its nest and directly into the path of a lawn mower, but maybe she wouldn't black out on him.

"I need you to try to breathe with me here. Just focus on bringing good air in and blowing bad air out," the driver said.

Danielle opened her mouth, inhaled, and was amazed to find air rush in. Her aching lungs eagerly accepted it and demanded more. The immense pressure in her chest began to subside.

"This is a trick that helped my wife. Imagine a pretty color, pink or razzmatazz or whatever girls like. Now, breathe that color in. Imagine the fear as an ugly color, like goddamn burlap brown and breathe that out. Just keep doing that until all the fear is gone," the cabbie said.

Danielle had no idea where her savior got his information from, but he was a genius. Her breathing was returning to normal, and the thought of inhaling a cloud of bright lemon yellow—she had never been one for traditional feminine colors—tickled her. Always assuming she survived, she'd have to remember the colors trick. It would be a great stress-relief tool. Grandma Sophia could probably teach it to her jazzercise class, too.

"Think you can stand?" the driver asked.

"Probably," Danielle replied. Her voice was weaker than she would have liked, but at least her vocal cords had thawed out.

The cabbie straightened up from his crouch and extended his hand so Danielle could grab hold. Her fingers had almost clasped on when the driver abruptly pulled back. Danielle looked up into his face and felt her heart fall. Her unlikely hero was biting his lip and his eyes were averted. What the hell had just happened to him?

"Get on your knees."

Of course. The _Scarecrow_ had happened.

"If you're gonna put a bullet in my back, you're gonna do it while I'm standing," the cabbie replied.

This sucked. There was no better way to phrase it. He could feel the gun pressed firmly against the center of his back. If the bastard fired, there was going to be one hideous mess where his spine, heart, and lungs used to be.

"Can you give me any reason not to?" the Scarecrow asked.

"Because it'll kill me."

"That's more of an incentive, actually."

"Because if you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine."

"I did always like _Star Trek_ better."

"Christ, I'm going to be killed by a Trekkie!" the driver moaned.

"If you have nothing remotely intelligent to say-"

"Please don't shoot him!"

The cabbie looked at Danielle with sad eyes. He didn't want her begging for his life. If he wasn't going to plead for the dried-up old thing, there was no reason she should. Besides, he doubted if the sick little bastard would really shoot him. By way of the evening news and morning papers, he knew what the Scarecrow did to his victims. The freak got off on fear, and there was no way he'd gotten enough yet. Murdering someone who hadn't contributed anything but sarcasm and swear words would be like throwing out a brand new toy.

The Scarecrow grinned behind his mask. He liked the woman. He wished the insipid driver had been run over by a garbage truck. But the woman, she didn't have anywhere near as strong a constitution or as sharp a tongue. Living on the other side of the country, where the scariest thing was probably unsorted recycling, had made her a soft target.

"Would you rather die in his place?"

"No, she would not! Asshole, stay on topic, alright. This is about _me_. I'm the one who knocked your bony ass over, not her," the cabbie said.

"And for that you will pay dearly. Up the stairs, now," the Scarecrow ordered.

"I'm not leaving you two down here together."

Danielle got to het feet. "I'll go up first, then. Anything you want, I'll do it. Just don't shoot anybody."

Keeping her eyes downcast, Danielle hurried past the Scarecrow. She half-expected him to make a grab for her. He didn't, and her feet found the first stair. She began to climb. After she had gotten up half a flight, Danielle heard the cabbie start behind her.

"What floor are we walking to?" the driver asked.

"The third floor. That will be the door with a large yellow number three painted on it, in case you forgot," the Scarecrow replied.

"Thanks, but Count von Count taught me that already."

Lugging her suitcase had become a real pain by the time Danielle cleared the second floor landing. She looked at the door on the off chance it would be open, but noticed a padlock. They weren't getting out that way.

Just when she was thinking her arms would fall off, she set foot on the third floor. This door had been partially propped open with a doorstop. Danielle took a few tentative steps past the threshold. A long hall with several doors on either side stretched before her. These must have all been rentable apartments at one time in the relatively distant past.

"Fourth door on the left, turn the knob and walk in," the Scarecrow said.

Danielle walked past the first door and heard something peculiar. It sounded like someone was talking in one of the rooms. She strained to catch more words, hoping to determine whether it was a person or a digital voice coming from a TV or radio.

"Don't worry about him. He's probably arguing with Anderson Cooper again; his medication hasn't quite been able to drown out the 'voices'."

"What the hell is this place, the crazy emporium?"

The Scarecrow ignored the comment and the cabbie was forced to march forward. Danielle reached the fourth door. Reluctantly, she reached for the knob and opened the door.

"Hey, wait a second. That's a door," the cabbie pointed out.

Danielle frowned in confusion and the Scarecrow rolled his eyes. "Your point?"

"You said the door down there would be the last we ever entered alive."

"No, I said it _might_ be. It wasn't, unfortunately. Now get in and stop wasting my time."

Herded like a pair of cows, Danielle and her loud-mouthed protector were forced into the room. Her eyes roved around and she tried to take in everything at once. The room wasn't particularly large, but she couldn't say she liked what she saw.

The room was very brightly lit, and the walls had been painted white. The color reminded Danielle of a dentist's office. That set her teeth on edge. She hated dentists far more than she hated rats. She blamed the movie _Marathon Man_ and a half-blind dentist she'd had as a kid.

There was sparse furniture, so at least the Scarecrow didn't sleep in here. There was a stainless steel table—which also reminded her of the sterility of a dentist's office—and two very solid-looking chairs. A much more cushioned folding chair sat off to the side. Danielle was quite sure of which seat belonged to the Scarecrow.

"Please, have a seat. Stay awhile," the Scarecrow invited.

"Stick your head in the toilet and flush," the cabbie said.

"Go before I tape your mouth shut."

Danielle and the driver took their seats. The Scarecrow nodded his approval and then walked to the table. He removed a large cardboard box from underneath it. From the box he drew a clipboard, two sets of handcuffs, and a roll of duct tape.

"I have a few questions to ask you before we begin. I can do it either before or after I restrain you."

"My name is Joseph—I wasn't just being cute when I said I was Joe the Cabbie—I'm a Libra, I prefer brunettes, and I have never been convicted of any major crimes. There, now you know enough to set up an account for me on a dating site."

"All of that information is irrelevant. This is more of a medical questionnaire."

"I don't have health insurance, and the 'medical questionnaires' are a part of it."

The Scarecrow was going to lose what little patience the cabbie hadn't already worn away. He decided he'd save the irritating one for last. The woman would be more compliant.

"What about you? Would you be wise enough to make this quick and painless? I'd advise it, because the second step is anything but."

Danielle felt her core temperature drop a few degrees. "What kind of questions are they?"

"Excellent choice. These will be, I assure you, easy to answer. Do you have any type of heart condition or disease?"

"No."

"I have the heart of a small boy. I keep it in a jar on my desk," Joe said.

Frowning, the Scarecrow picked up a pencil from the clipboard and scribbled something down. Joe laughed at him.

"You're honestly playing doctor? Really? Do you have some file cabinet full of your victims' records or something?"

"That isn't far from the truth, actually," the Scarecrow replied. "Now, do you have any pulmonary condition? For you, idiot, that means 'is there something wrong with your lungs?'"

"Why do you want to know that? You looking to eat whichever set of lungs is healthier?" the cabbie asked.

"No, I need to know which method of delivery is best suited for each of you. Certain breathing problems—asthma, for instance—would be triggered by a gas. I don't want either of you dying quickly because of respiratory failure."

"Delivery of what? Shit from EBay? You gotta use FedEx."

The cabbie had to suffer, and soon. The Scarecrow would not be able to keep his cool much longer.

"No, delivery of a hallucinogenic drug."

"Yeah, I'd still go with FedEx. I know a guy who shipped a bong with them."

The Scarecrow ground his teeth together. He was going to hurt that bastard so badly. Just a few more moments.

"I'm not using FedEx so shut up! There are two methods—inhalation and injection—and I may just flip a coin to decide."

On second thought, no he wouldn't. The worm had definitely twitched at the second option. The man was no fan of needles, apparently. How delightful!

"I see it's decided for you, my friend. Do you have a hint of trypanophobia? Unfortunate."

"I'm not afraid of you or any ten syllable word you know."

"How long's it been since you had a flu shot?"

"Oh, shit."

* * *

I feel a bit bad being that evil…

Anyone care to guess who's behind Door Number One? Get it right and I'll…I don't know. I'll be impressed at your skills.

Bathmophobia is the fear of stairs or steep slopes.

The idea of breathing in a good color and breathing out an ugly one is not mine. I stole it from Dean Koontz's _Dark Rivers of the Heart_.

_Marathon Man_ = Nazi dentist. There is no scarier combination, except perhaps clown Nazi or clown dentist (the Joker did this).

Trypanophobia is the fear of needles and one of the most common phobias.


	5. Dreams in Darkness

I would like to congratulate AZ-woodbomb for correctly guessing who was behind Door Number 1.

I would also like to thank all the other reviewers. You guys are truly wonderful. You give me the _cojones _and the motivation to write this thing

And to the various trypanophobes and fellow dentist-fearers, I express my sympathies. To those who don't fear either of those things, I'll try to horrify you in new and exciting ways, so hold tight.

* * *

The Scarecrow finished his questions--he got satisfactory answers from the woman and vulgar hand gestures from cabbie--and dropped his clipboard onto the table. Now, things could get difficult. He had to handcuff both of his new test subjects and he doubted if either would be all that willing. The woman he could subdue with fear and vague threats of violence. Her self-appointed protector was willing to pit his sarcasm against a gun-toting masked super-criminal. He had little in the way of survival instincts, and that made him dangerous. And annoying.

"Do you have any fuzzy handcuffs? I like those a lot more," Joe said.

"No, I definitely do not. Now put your hands out in front of you and stop being foolish."

"Yeah, that's probably not gonna happen anytime this decade. I have a really short list of people I let tie me up, and you are not on it."

"Your fetishes are of no interest to me. Put out your hands."

"Get me a more comfortable chair and some booze and maybe we'll talk."

"You will regret this, all of it."

The cabbie smiled pleasantly and tried to lean his chair back. It was stuck in place, either too heavy to move or actually bolted to the floor. Joe supposed the Scarecrow wouldn't want his victims going anywhere.

"You, put your hands out and don't even think about being difficult."

Danielle extended her hands and tried not to shake as the Scarecrow stalked towards her. He grabbed her wrists—the cabbie protested but was ignored—and his hands were warm against her skin. That surprised her. In all the detective novels and horror books Danielle had read, the villains always had cold, clammy grips. The Scarecrow felt like human with a perfectly normal body temperature.

"Were you expecting a tentacle or an icy metal pincer?" the Scarecrow asked, reading the confusion on her face.

"A little bit," Danielle admitted.

"Only in fiction, I'm afraid." He locked the handcuffs in place.

Joe glanced from the masked villain to the table in front of him. The Scarecrow had done something stupid. In order to handcuff Danielle, he'd had to put down his gun. He hadn't stuck in down the front of his pants like some idiot hood who wanted his balls blown off, but had set it down on the table. The weapon was much closer to the Scarecrow, but the cabbie was almost willing to risk it. If he could get the jump on the skinny bastard, he might be able to grab the gun.

"Unless you'd like to learn what being shot in the knee feels like, I would suggest you sit still and behave yourself."

There went that idea. The Scarecrow picked up the gun and pointed it at Joe. Threatening the ape with force hadn't worked thus far, so the Scarecrow was going to try something new. He wasn't a one trick pony, after all.

"I will be unusually humane and offer you one last chance to cooperate. Here's the deal, and it's the best you're going to get. You can either follow directions or you can remain belligerent. If you do as I say, I spare her for the moment. If you continue being difficult, you will listen to her scream."

The cabbie looked from Danielle to the Scarecrow. There really wasn't much of a choice to make. He'd never be able to look at himself as a man if he let a woman suffer in his place. He'd been taught since childhood—by a grandmother who would have been arrested for child and spousal abuse in a more enlightened era—that women were to be cherished and occasionally feared. He figured there was a good chance he'd die tonight, and he didn't want his first image of the next life to be a rolling pin smashing him a good one.

It wasn't right. Danielle wanted to tell the cabbie not to agree to the devil's deal. There was no sense in it. Eventually, both of them would suffer whatever the Scarecrow wanted to inflict on them. Even if he went first, she'd have to face the demons herself at the end.

And yet she couldn't do it, couldn't tell him. Her mouth opened and no words came out; fear held them back. Slowly building panic sat in her chest like fluid in her lungs and smothered her. Though she raged against it morally, she wasn't brave enough to sacrifice herself to the Scarecrow.

Joe offered up his hands and fixed a scowl on his face. He barely restrained kicking the Scarecrow when the cold metal of the cuffs closed around his wrists. If not for his passenger, he never would have gone quietly. The psycho doctor would have gotten a corpse to poke at. But now he had responsibilities; he couldn't let this woman, who he didn't even know the name of, to become a human experiment as long as he could help it.

"You're a shitty Howie Mandel," Joe muttered, "With him, I'd get at least a penny and I'd be on TV. And all those sexy women would open their cases for me, and I'd make lewd comments and all my dreams would come true."

"I'm sure your dreams would be an insightful look into the mind of the archetypal disengaged, disillusioned American middle-class worker. Perhaps if I was a Marxist, I would be interested. Seeing as how I am not, you can keep your fantasies to yourself."

"One time, I dreamed I was eating a hamburger at Burger King and a cow walked in and punched me. What does that tell you about my psyche?"

The Scarecrow rolled his eyes. He wished he knew who had given the average man the impression that all psychology was about interpreting dreams and finding phallic symbols. If he could find the culprit, he'd give the lying, deceiving cretin such a terrifying death Stephen King would have nightmares about it. Hm. Stephen King's dreams…those would be interesting.

"It means PETA's ads have been more effective than I would have thought. Now stop asking stupid questions."

"I always thought there were no stupid questions. That's what they taught me in second grade," Joe said.

"Let me assure you, there are stupid questions and there are stupid people. The latter ask the former and both irritate me."

"You seem like the kind of guy who gets pissed off a lot. It'll give you ulcers, not that you don't deserve them, but I just felt like warning you. I'm a nice guy and all that."

The Scarecrow picked up the roll of duct tape and made sure Joe saw it clearly. "Here's my _friendly_ warning to you, then. If one more dim remark comes out of your mouth, I'm going to shut you up with this."

"Who's going to judge if it's a dumb remark?"

"I am, and that was it."

"Isn't that pretty much you being judge, jury and executioner?"

Like most people who knew the simple joy that could only come from rigging a rickety and yet somehow functional kludge, Jonathan Crane loved duct tape. He loved it for different reasons than the average man—most people had never restrained a writhing and violently uncooperative science experiment using tape—but the spirit was the same. Starting the fresh roll of tape brought a little and not unpleasant smile to his face. The simple things in life were sometimes the best.

"Rest your back firmly against the chair and don't make any sudden movements," the Scarecrow said.

"Why do you need duct tape? I'm already in cuffs," Joe shook his hands so the chain that connected the handcuffs jangled.

"You've still got relatively free range of motion but I am now revoking that privilege as punishment for your idiot mouth."

"Go to hell. I've put up with your handcuffs but there's no way I'm letting you get kinky with the duct tape."

The Scarecrow pointed his trusted gun at Joe. In response, the cabbie yawned to show just how bored he was with the whole being held at gunpoint act. It got old faster than a fruit fly with progeria.

"How many times is that now? Thirty? Look, nothing is scary the thirtieth time around. Not even-"

The cabbie's complaining was cut off by the boom of the gun and a sudden streak of pain just below his elbow. Joe looked down at his right arm and hissed. He was bleeding; it wasn't like Old Faithful was spouting out of him or anything, but there was more blood than he would have liked.

Danielle scrambled out of her chair at the gunshot. Her knees struck the unforgiving, uncarpeted floor and it felt like at least one patella had been knocked out of position. Ignoring the pain in her knees, she crawled behind her chair and hunkered down.

Joe tried to peel back his shirt sleeve to see just how bad the injury was but found it rather difficult due to the handcuffs. Asides from the logistical issues, moving this arm hurt like a son of a bitch. In his life, the cabbie had taken some serious licks but he'd never been shot before. It wasn't an experience he looked forward to ever repeating.

"Is that enough of a change of pace, or are you still bored?" The Scarecrow asked.

"No, goddamn it, I'm not bored. I'm _bleeding_!"

"And what lesson did you learn from that?"

"What lesson did I learn? I learned-"

No one ever did find out what Joe learned that day, because the door flew open so violently it ricocheted off the wall, closing again. After a second, it opened much slower to reveal a decidedly shame-faced man. He'd ruined his spectacular entrance and now he was regretting ever leaving his room.

Danielle peeked over the back of her chair like a cautious prairie dog peeping from its burrow. Joe doubted if the Scarecrow's roommates would be upstanding citizens and looked upon the intruder with some trepidation. One maniac he might be able to handle; two would be a little more challenging.

The Scarecrow whirled around to face the door. With a cry of fear, the man standing there covered his face and backed out into the hall. Apparently, he was even more afraid of the Scarecrow than Danielle was. That heartened her a little.

"That useless little schizophrenic," the Scarecrow muttered.

To his prisoners' surprise, the Scarecrow removed his mask. The man underneath didn't have fangs, blood-red eyes, translucent skin, or the fourfold mandibles of the alien warrior from _Predator_. Joe would have bet money on the last characteristic.

"It's a _mask_, Thomas. As it was in Arkham, it is now. Look at it," the Scarecrow said.

"I don't want to! Please, don't make me do it. I'm sorry, I won't do it again, the gun, I didn't know, _please_ don't make me!"

Leaving Joe to bleed and Danielle to hide, the Scarecrow left the room in pursuit of the intruder, slamming the door behind him. As soon as he was gone, Danielle emerged from behind her shield and rushed to Joe. He was looking far from happy.

"I can't believe he actually shot you. Is, is there anything I can do to help?" she asked.

"Yeah, roll up my sleeve so I can see how bad it is. That straw son of a bitch. When I get my hands on him, he's going to regret ever leaving the cornfield."

Danielle looked down at Joe's arm and felt her stomach flip. There was a reason she hadn't gone to medical school, and it had nothing to do with the cost of tuition. She had never fainted at the sight of blood, but a few times she'd gotten light-headed. The Red Cross wouldn't be getting her pint anytime this decade.

"You afraid of blood?" the cabbie asked.

"I'm not really afraid of it; I just like it a lot more inside the body than out. Don't mind me; I really don't think it's that bad. It looks pretty shallow, like the bullet just grazed you," Danielle said.

"Thanks. And can you do me one favor? Don't even _hint_ that you're squeamish when he gets back here. I really would prefer he not open a vein, okay?"

"Oh, God, that would suck."

"That would make everything that's ever sucked seem pretty decent by comparison."

"I have an idea," Danielle said.

She grabbed her suitcase, which she had dropped on the side of her chair, and opened it. The suitcase had been so stuffed that, once the pressure was relieved, several items popped out on their own accord. A sweater, a pair of socks, a bra Danielle hastily recovered, and a small box wrapped by uncoordinated hands all leapt from the suffocating confines of the plastic shell.

Danielle searched among her various clothes and personal objects before she found what she wanted. It was a tee shirt embossed with a much-hated baseball team's logo. She'd been given the shirt for her birthday by a friend who really didn't have a clue; she'd been trying to get rid of it in some kind and unsuspicious way ever since. Performing triage on a cab driver seemed like just the excuse she was looking for.

"I don't want _that_ on me! Those bastards' batboys play a better game of baseball."

"I know! I've been trying to ditch this rag for a year and a half without hurting anyone's feelings. Please let me destroy it with your blood. Wow that sounded revolting."

"Fine. Bandage me up."

Trying to avoid getting blood on her hands, Danielle wrapped the shirt around Joe's arm and tied it. The shirt proved to be a successful fix. It both put pressure on the wound and hid a majority of the blood.

"That was great thinking. I guess you don't have mace or a baseball bat with rusty nails driven through it in there, do you?" Joe asked.

"No…but I do have my cell phone! Holy shit, why didn't I think of that before?" Danielle rushed back to the bag and began to throw things out.

It seemed like she'd crammed roughly half of her earthly possessions into the suitcase. Her cell phone could play hide and seek behind a credit card it was so compact. Finding the device among all the other stuff was no easy task.

"Crap, crap, crap! Why didn't I just put it in a separate compartment?" Danielle moaned.

The paperback she'd been reading on the plane went flying. A pair of jeans, a blouse, sneakers, a bottle of water, Grandma Sophia's birthday card, a candy bar, and a travel-sized bottle of shampoo also took flight. Still no cell phone.

"Are you sure it's in there?" Joe asked, eying the growing pile of assorted items.

"Yes I'm sure. Here's the charger for it. Now where's the damn thing?"

Just as her questing hand closed around the phone's body, the door opened. The Scarecrow, unmasked and accompanied by the man who'd burst in all gung-ho only minutes ago, entered the room. He scowled at the mess on the floor and then at the cause.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Danielle's mind went blank. They were so screwed.

* * *

In the next chapter, Dr. Crane gets down to business. Just letting you know.


	6. A Proper Mad Doctor

Sorry about the delay. I had a bit of trouble with the ending; I think it was my conscience…

Thanks, as always, for the reviews. You guys all deserve a tasty snack of your choice. Please, eat something nummy and think fondly of me.

* * *

"What are you doing?" the Scarecrow repeated.

He couldn't get the phone. The gears of Danielle's mind turned enough to produce that thought. If the cell phone was confiscated, they wouldn't get rescued. They would die horrifying deaths or be driven insane and their families would be crushed.

"I was looking for something," Danielle finally choked out.

"Obviously. What was it?"

"Drugs!"

"_What_?"

"For Joe, because you shot him. Tylenol, I mean, not illegal drugs," she hastily amended.

Danielle hastily shut the suitcase, leaving the phone inside. By some miracle, she did have a few individual packets of Tylenol caplets tucked in a zippered pouch. She opened the pouch, rooted around for a minute, and finally produced two packets of extra-strength Tylenol. She held them out so the Scarecrow could clearly see what they were.

Crane debated whether or not he'd allow the cabbie to take the Tylenol. From a medical standpoint, there was no reason not to. There was practically no chance the weak painkillers would interact with the poison that would soon attack Joe's mind; if the anti-psychotics some of Arkham inmates had been on hadn't dulled the effects, it was highly unlikely an over-the-counter drug would. The real reason behind denying the cabbie would be simple spite. Scarecrow hated Joe and wanted to see him suffer in any and all ways possible.

"Alright, give it to him." Scarecrow couldn't be allowed to win _all _the arguments; he was pompous enough as it was. Crane wasn't about to have a dark side with an ego even bigger than his own.

Danielle reached for the water bottle she had thrown from her suitcase. Before she could grab it, the Scarecrow kicked it across the room.

"I said he could have the Tylenol; I never agreed to let him have water."

"If you've got beer I'd prefer that," Joe said.

"Letting you mix pills and alcohol would just be irresponsible of me," Crane said.

"Forget about the water; I don't need it," the cabbie said.

Grateful to get away from the Scarecrow, Danielle started to back up. His hand roughly and unexpectedly clamped down on her arm and she gasped. She cringed and yanked, trying to free her arm.

"No, you've got something else to do; pick up every single last thing you threw on my floor and put it back in its rightful place. Thomas can play doctor."

Thomas Schiff would get his medical degree about the same time Jonathan Crane's was re-instated: two weeks after Judgment Day. Despite the illegality of him practicing any kind of medicine, he was only too happy to please Crane. After all, he owed the doctor more than he could ever hope to pay. Also, Dr. Crane was the one person who could keep the Scarecrow at bay. Thomas remembered only too clearly the horrible face of that particular apparition. Most of his memories of Arkham were blurry and seen through a filter that reminded him of thick shower scum. His few encounters with the Scarecrow, though, those were vivid enough to still give him nightmares.

"He can have them, just please let me go," Danielle said.

Her arm was released and she hastily handed over the two packets. Thomas' hand, she noticed from the brief contact, was cool to the touch. It still wasn't the clammy grip of a mobile corpse, but it was weird.

While Danielle gathered up all her clothing and trappings, Thomas gingerly approached Joe. The schizophrenic moved like he was composed entirely of nerve endings and fast twitch muscle fiber. His hands couldn't be still, he compulsively licked his lips (a habit he'd picked up from his last 'employer') and he had more nervous tics than an epileptic inbred Chihuahua.

Joe gave twitchy Thomas a quick once-over. Asides from possessing a body he hardly seemed in control of, the man didn't have much fashion sense either. The cabbie supposed it was probably a symptom of insanity. Crazy people had other things than matching outfits—like UFOs and government mind control probes—to worry about.

"You know you're wearing two different socks?" Joe asked.

Thomas looked down at his own feet in confusion. Sure enough, two very different socks looked back up from him. The left was a classic white tube sock. The right was striped with all the colors of the rainbow and would have looked at home at a gay pride event. Strangely, Thomas couldn't remember putting either sock on, nor could he begin to imagine where the socks' rightful partners might have gotten to.

"And you might want to lace your shoes up properly, or find someone who can."

One shoe had no laces at all. The other's laces closely resembled a tangled bowl of noodles or the Flying Spaghetti Monster. He had almost forgotten how to tie shoes while in Arkham; for obvious reasons, the inmates weren't allowed shoestrings. His schizophrenic brain seemed to have trouble making the loops required to tie his shoes. His unsteady hands didn't aid much, either.

"And-"

"Even when it's in your best interests, when you're actually getting what you want, you can't shut up! Thomas, forget about the Tylenol; I've got something else for you to do. Pick the duct tape up from the table," Crane said.

Schiff dropped the packets and grabbed the roll of tape. He hadn't been allowed to play with duct tape in a very long time. Grinning with the innocent pleasure of a child, Thomas found the end of the roll and began to unwind it. Soon, he had several feet of tape clinging to him and he had forgotten what he was supposed to do with it.

"Please get stuck in his hair, please get stuck in his _eyebrows_," Joe prayed under his breath.

Before Thomas could get tangled or accidentally give himself an impromptu eyebrow wax, Crane was kind enough to remind him of the task at hand. Sufficiently chastised, he stopped attempting to play cat's cradle with the duct tape and turned it towards more appropriate applications.

"I don't want that tape touching me. It's contaminated with maniac germs," the cabbie protested.

"Tape his mouth shut when you're finished," Crane said.

As the spastic man began to wind the tape around his chest, Joe's first instinct was to fight back. Even with one arm out of commission, the cabbie was sure he'd be able to take the schizophrenic. Thomas was much smaller than he was, and looked about as physically imposing as an aging Sunday school teacher.

It wasn't concern for Schiff's welfare that kept Joe in his seat. The cabbie had a list of people he'd chop off his own hand before he'd hit—kids, women, dogs—and the Scarecrow's henchmen weren't on the list. What kept him docile was the Scarecrow's proximity to Danielle; he stood over her like some pompous taskmaster. It would take him only a fraction of a second to turn the young woman into leverage if Joe tried to break Thomas' nose.

Going at it with great zeal, Thomas soon had Joe cocooned in duct tape. There was little method to Thomas' madness. Random strips of tape crisscrossed the taxi driver's legs, torso, arms, and cuffed hands. Joe looked like a mummy that had been embalmed by a drunken high priest who was well on the road to senility.

"Nice work, buddy. I think you get an 'A' for effort and an 'F' for style. I could've done it better myself."

Still grinning, Thomas slapped a piece of tape over Joe's mouth. The cabbie swore and tried to grab the man. The duct tape held firm. Now it was Crane's turn to smirk.

"Excellent work, Thomas. I have another important job for you. Guard these two. When this one is done picking up her mess, make sure she returns to her chair."

"Dr. Crane, where are you going?" Thomas asked.

"Next door. I think you know what I have to get."

"It's not for _me_, is it? I didn't mean to interrupt, I'm sorry, I heard the gun and I thought-"

"No, Thomas, it isn't for you. And I forgive you for nearly knocking the door off its hinges. You were right to investigate. Next time, however, simply knock and wait for a response," Crane said. Scarecrow wanted to add a threat. Crane denied him.

"Right, knock next time. I'll remember."

Praying Thomas wouldn't get distracted by the table's polished sheen or tempted by the duct tape, Crane left the room. Once he was gone, Thomas stood stiffly in front of Joe. He looked like a less dignified version of the British royal guard.

Danielle finished shoving items back into her bulging suitcase. She tried to zip it, only to find it impossible. The contents were in such disarray they now took up too much space. Surrendering to the immovable zipper, Danielle lugged the open-mouthed case back to her seat and set it beside her.

With nothing to do but die of anxiety waiting for the Scarecrow to return, Danielle tried to occupy her mind. She was dismayed to find Joe silenced. His constant sarcasm made the whole situation a little less frightening. Now that he couldn't talk, the only people she'd have to listen to would be the mad doctor and his jumpy Igor.

Schiff couldn't hold his rigid pose for long. He soon began to shift from foot to foot and then to pace back and forth. He was nervous. He was _always _nervous. Dr. Crane hadn't done anything to hurt him in quite some time, but the persistence of memory was strong. Thomas knew what the doctor was going to do to the two people he'd brought home; he didn't want to be in the room when it happened. Unlike the Scarecrow and the Joker, screams of terror and agony didn't do much for Schiff except put him on edge.

The constant pacing was beginning to grate on Joe's nerves. His inability to tell Schiff to walk out a window was just as irksome, if not more so. The sarcasm was going to start building up inside him and if he couldn't vent it on somebody, he'd probably explode like a volcano.

'Are you there, God? It's me, Joe. Look, I know we haven't spoken ever, but if you would hit this guy with a meteor or a plane or a sudden bout of projectile vomiting, I would really appreciate it. It wouldn't make up for all the shit you put me through, you know what I mean, but it would be a healthy start.'

When it seemed like he would go insane from a combination of forced silence, restricted movement, and the schizo's mindless wandering, Joe was given an unwanted distraction. The door opened and Crane, carrying a latched case, walked into the room. He noted that both his test subjects were accounted for, and then noticed Schiff wandering around. That irked him.

"Are you guarding, or are you exhibiting a loss of self-control?"

Thomas froze in place so perfectly he might have been locked in carbonite. With the exquisite slowness of one who expected not only a reprimand but a long and harsh beating, he turned to face Crane. Keeping his eyes downcast and his shoulders slumped, Schiff waited to be punished.

Frightening Thomas was so easy it had almost lost appeal. The schizophrenic really was more pitiable than petrified, anyway. Seeing him cower like a dog gave Crane little pleasure, though Scarecrow contemptuously chuckled away. Nothing, no matter how pathetic or depraved, seemed to negatively affect Scarecrow.

"As I've told you before, that restlessness is controllable. Try harder next time. Now, why don't you clear the table for me? Put the box underneath and, for your own sake, grow a spine. Your sniveling is making Scarecrow hungry."

Acting as though God himself had prodded him, Schiff jumped into action. He knew what Scarecrow fed on, and it wasn't pizza or Ramen noodles or any of the things Thomas liked. It was fear. Horrified at the idea of being at Scarecrow's mercy—or lack thereof—Schiff grabbed the cardboard box and shoved it under the table.

"Pull over my chair."

Moving with manic speed, Thomas fetched Crane's chair. Joe snorted at the ridiculousness of it. The Scarecrow would have needed to walk all of six feet to get his own chair. Obviously, he just liked ordering crazy people around.

"Alright, Thomas, you can leave now if you'd like."

"I can? I can go?"

"Yes, unless you'd like to stay and watch, as a learning opportunity. You're welcome to-"Crane never got to finish because Schiff made like an egg and beat it.

"I'd rather not have him here, actually. His whining would detract from the experience."

Crane set the case down and took his seat. He fiddled with the case for a minute before opening it. Making sure neither of his victims could see what he was doing, Crane sorted through the various items he'd packed.

"Normally at this time, I'd ask if you'd like to see my mask. You've already seen it, unfortunately, so I'll save it for later, once the fear sets in."

Deliberately taking him time, Crane began to move objects from the case to the tabletop. He set a small glass vial that was filled with a perfectly clear liquid on the table. Then he waited for Joe's reaction.

That was it? Though Joe was but a lowly taxi driver, he had some opinions about how deadly poisons ought to appear. In his mind, any mad doctor worth his salt concocted poisonous neon-green potions that glowed like the dead-raising formula from _Re-Animator_. If the Scarecrow had exhibited something like that, the cabbie might have really started sweating.

"Not impressed? Ah, but you will be."

Joe tried to keep a stoic face when Crane produced a syringe and placed it next to the vial. He supposed he did rather well considering, should the world ever be in the grips of a lethal pandemic, he'd have a hard time deciding between the vaccine and germy death. The Scarecrow looked a little disappointed when he didn't get the squirming he expected.

"You can hold your composure, I will give you that. I think it's about time you experience the culmination of my life's work. Let's see what nightmares you've got lurking around inside that foolish head of yours."

The fallen doctor drew some of the vial's contents into the needle. Joe's heart quivered. He did not, did not, _did not_ want whatever was in that needle in his body. Crane rose from his seat and approached the bound cabbie.

"This is a mildly diluted version of my fear toxin. Unless you're allergic to one of the compounds, it won't kill you. It probably isn't even strong enough to make you wish you were dead. Consider it a taste of things to come," Crane said.

Having to work around the random strips of duct tape that covered most of Joe's arms, Crane managed to find a suitable site just above the cabbie's left wrist. He seized Joe's hand in a surprisingly powerful grip for a bag of sticks. It wouldn't do for the relentlessly irritating driver to suddenly flinch away.

"This may sting a bit."

It did.

* * *

To make it clear, he's generally Crane when the mask is off, and Scarecrow when it's on. Just so nobody has to wonder why he's been referred to so heavily as the Scarecrow in past chapters.


	7. Nowhere Man

I think I'm going to have to change the genre to humor/horror.

Thanks to everyone for the reviews. To all those who feared for Joe's safety, I'm sorry to say your fears are about to be realized. And to those of you who were eager, you guys are evil! But I love you anyway. And to Tapidum Lucidum, there will not be now, nor will there ever be, romance in this story. Ever. I'd randomly introduce a Russian dancing bear before I'd introduce romance. I mean no offense, it simply will never happen.

* * *

Much to Joe's surprise, the tape was roughly removed from his mouth. It felt like it took a few layers of skin and half a lip with it, but at least he could talk. He doubted if he'd have more than a minute before whatever shit he'd been injected with started to take effect, but that might be just enough time for some choice words with a certain car-jacking scum bag.

"Whatever you're planning to tell me, you won't have time," Crane said.

"Your mother-"

He was consumed by white light. Damn it, the bastard had been right. There wasn't enough time.

It was so bright and intense Joe felt like he was staring into the heart of a nuclear blast without so much as a pair of sunglasses to shade his vision. The walls, already a harsh white, became painfully effulgent. The light grew so bright it swallowed the floor and the ceiling, the table, and lastly, Danielle. He was alone in this almost unbearable brilliance.

Alone, that was, except for the Scarecrow. Of course the light hadn't been able to banish him as it had all other things.

"Where am I?" Joe asked. His voice echoed, as though he had spoken in the middle of a monstrous cavern.

Crane loved it when his fear toxin took people places. Never nice places they wanted to go—not Disneyworld or the Oscars, for instance—but still psychologically interesting places. His inability to look directly into his victims' disturbed minds and see what realm they had hallucinated was sometimes frustrating, but the thrill of trying to decipher their garbled words was worth the ignorance.

"What makes you think you've gone anywhere? Maybe you're still where you were," Crane replied.

"You're a goddamn idiot! This is _not _where I was! Where's the floor then, huh? Where's that woman? Where's _anything_?"

"I'm right here, Joe! You're seeing things…or not seeing things. The Scarecrow poisoned you, remember? I'm here and you're right next to me," Danielle shouted.

"I hear her, so where the hell is she?" Joe demanded.

Forgetting about the cabbie for a second, Scarecrow bore down on Danielle. And he was definitely Scarecrow now, Crane pushed rudely to the side. He hated being interrupted, especially while he was doing research and on the very few occasions he managed to have fun.

With strength a man his height and build shouldn't have possessed, the Scarecrow wrenched Danielle from her chair. She was lifted off her feet and roughly shaken. She wasn't exactly a small woman, and she'd never been literally swept off her feet before. It was just a shame that the first man to do it looked like he'd rip her throat out if he had the claws and canines for the job.

"You will have your turn soon enough. Until then, be still and keep your mouth shut!" The Scarecrow said.

"But Joe-"

The Scarecrow brought her close and forced her eyes to meet his. Danielle was like a bird hypnotized by a snake; the danger was obvious, it was slithering straight for her, yet she couldn't so much as twitch a wing. She couldn't move, couldn't look away no matter how lethal his gaze felt. He had her truly transfixed.

"You're concerned for him?"

Danielle forced her mouth to open and produce a single word, "Yes."

"Are you _frightened_ for him?"

"Yes."

"He's going to die, you know, insane and in more fear than you can comprehend. And I'm going to watch and laugh. Then I'm going to start on you. Enjoy the show until it's your turn on the chopping block."

With that, the Scarecrow let go of her shirt and she fell. Unprepared for the sudden drop, Danielle failed to lock her legs in time and landed on her butt. She grunted in pain as her tailbone was knocked up into her thoracic vertebrae.

Her back was never going to forgive her. Even if her masseuse with the magic fingers was Johnny Depp, that wouldn't be enough.

The one good thing about the ache she was quite sure had taken up permanent residence in her spine was that it loosened the hold of fear over her. She wasn't going to get up and engage the Scarecrow in hand to hand combat—especially since she was at a definite disadvantage because of the cuffs—but she wasn't going to be scared silent yet. Joe had saved her skin, and she hadn't done anything of use to him. Besides, if she was damned, didn't it make sense to do something heroic with her remaining time?

"She won't be bothering us again. Now, where were we?"

"You're still in your chair, Joe. I can see you sitting there. Don't listen to him, he's full of-"

The foot that caught her in the chest knocked her flat on her back and bounced her head off the uncarpeted floor. She saw stars and felt immense pain explode throughout her skull. It was as if someone had set a pipe bomb off in there.

"And here I took you for a sensible coward; no, like him, you're an idiot. That's fine, I know how to deal with idiots," the Scarecrow said.

Leaving Danielle dazed on the floor and Joe awash in the white nowhere, the Scarecrow returned to his case of horrors. He had been planning on verbally torturing the cabbie—getting him to believe he truly was alone and he'd die that way—but it looked like the irritating woman needed a lesson. Actions spoke louder than words, so the axiom went, and the Scarecrow knew actions that would make anyone howl.

"No!" Joe suddenly exclaimed. Though he couldn't see the table or the open case that sat upon, he caught the sharp glint of the object the Scarecrow now held.

He was afraid. Her protector, the man who'd allowed himself to be poisoned so she wouldn't be, was truly frightened. That had to be a bad sign.

It was. The Scarecrow was holding a scalpel and smiling affectionately at the blade. Danielle's stomach contracted to roughly the size of a pea. Scalpels were used for only one thing: cutting. Cutting inevitably led to bleeding, and bleeding would lead to her turning into a weak-kneed, pathetic mess.

"For you, or for him?" the Scarecrow asked.

"What?" Danielle didn't understand what he was even asking about.

"Your incessant mouth has gotten you into trouble, and now you have a choice to make. Who takes the punishment, you or him?"

"Oh my God, you can't."

"I most certainly can. Now, who pays the price?"

Danielle looked from the horrific blade to Joe. She couldn't even consider letting him suffer for her again. This was her fault, she'd voluntarily opened her mouth, _she_ had to take it. Her squeamishness was not in any way a viable excuse; it just made speaking very difficult.

"Me." That wasn't her voice.

The Scarecrow's hand drifted in the cabbie's direction slowly, almost like a dowsing rod seeking out water. He was smiling with keen and cruel anticipation. He hadn't expected the cabbie to speak up, honestly doubted he'd have the courage, but it was a pleasant surprise. Coupling pain with fear would crush him much quicker.

"Him, I see," the Scarecrow said.

"That's not fair, it isn't even his choice," Danielle protested.

"I like this arrangement. Guilt can be your punishment, and physical suffering can be his."

Leaving Danielle to wallow in the guilt that would consume her like the maw of a predator, the Scarecrow turned back to Joe. The cabbie's heart, already beating well above average, took a dangerous lurch he didn't like at all. That would be just too jolly if he had a heart attack.

"You don't like scalpels either. I'm not surprised. In many cases, trypanophobia can grow to encompass a fear of all medical procedures. You probably haven't had regular checkups in years, have you?"

Joe was silent. He was afraid of what words might come out of his mouth. He didn't think he was quite at the stage where'd he offer the Scarecrow sexual favors (and he was sure he'd die long before he ever got there) in exchange for mercy but the idea of the lunatic stabbing him made his blood run cold.

Grinning at the cabbie's suddenly taciturn attitude, the Scarecrow mentally considered where to begin. He could nurse a grudge, even over the pettiest thing, and he wanted to just start hacking things off. Crane restrained him due to the fear that he'd never get bloodstains out of the suit. It was dry clean only and there wasn't an establishment in all of Gotham that wouldn't phone the cops if clothing that looked like it had been worn during the Texas Chainsaw Massacre was dropped off. Crane was not going to be plowed over by a SWAT team when he tried to pick up his laundry.

So he couldn't chop of any ears, fingers, or noses and he couldn't sever any major arteries. That was alright, Scarecrow supposed. There was more than one way to make a man bleed.

"Let's start with making you symmetrical," the Scarecrow said.

What the hell did that mean? The cabbie understood the idea of symmetry—both sides the same—but how did you make a person symmetrical? Weren't they already that way?

In response to the questions Joe had only asked in his head, the Scarecrow cut him across the left arm, at the exact latitude of the gunshot wound on his right. He now had twin injuries. Proper symmetry was restored.

"I don't think that's quite deep enough; it hardly looks worse than a cat scratch."

It sure as hell didn't _feel_ like a cat scratch, unless the cat in question was a lion or a tiger. The cut on his arm reminded Joe of one of the stupidest moments of his life. Once, while in a drunken stupor, he'd fallen down and somehow managed to open his palm up from thumb to pinky. In a show of sheer brilliance, he poured not hydrogen peroxide or iodine on the cut, but the whiskey responsible for the whole mess. That pain and continued burn was quite similar to what he was experiencing now.

To create a more perfect match, the Scarecrow plied his scalpel again. This time, the cabbie had to make a valiant effort not to thrash. He could feel blood begin to soak into his sleeve.

"That's unfortunate, I seem to have overdone it. I suppose I'll have to even things out on the other side."

Danielle had always been more of a Boy Scout than a Brownie, and she knew how to tie a knot. The Scarecrow found this out when he tried to pull the makeshift bandage from Joe's arm, only to find it had no intention of letting go. He wasn't in the mood to untangle it, so he tried cutting it with the scalpel. That was slow going: unlike knives, scalpels were designed to make precision cuts during surgery. They weren't meant to saw through cotton tee shirts.

The yanking and then the random slashing accomplished one thing; they reopened the injury beneath the shirt. Soon enough, the Scarecrow's fingers were bloody and his temper was getting the better of him. Crane had nearly all the patience in their relationship. Scarecrow considered ten seconds too long to wait for a cup of coffee.

Before Scarecrow could cut his—_their_—fingers off, Crane stepped back in. With his wretchedly impatient half out of the way, Crane carefully undid the shirt and tossed it aside. Scarecrow was right; the left side had been carved deeper than the right. Repairing that unfortunate error just seemed like the proper thing to do.

Wielding the scalpel with more precision and equal sadism, Crane evened out both sides. Satisfied at the bright red spots blooming among the silver duct tape, he decided to see what effect his work was having on the cabbie. Crane studied Joe's face and wasn't quite satisfied with what he saw. There was still too much determination and not enough fear. Nowhere near enough fear, actually. He'd have to remedy that.

Crane brought the keen scalpel to Joe's eye level and held it a few inches from his face. He let the cabbie get a good look at the blade. Joe stared at the scalpel with intensity. He wasn't going to blink, sure as hell wasn't going to look away, no matter how much that thing scared him.

"I could blind you with this. Two quick jabs and you wouldn't have to worry about where you were. You'd be nowhere," Crane said.

"I'm already nowhere," Joe replied with a voice that was almost but not quite steady.

"But you can see me, can't you? I could fix that. You'd be nowhere and you'd be alone."

"Better than being with you."

With his empty hand, Crane covered Joe's eyes. The cabbie jerked violently at the touch and the sudden plunge into darkness. Alright, turning out the lights was not better.

"Darkness is one of Man's most primitive fears, an ancestral fear that helped keep our primitive forebears alive. To them, darkness was where the predators lived. They could emerge from that darkness at any time to sink their claws into unsuspecting hominids."

In demonstration of the unpleasant fate that awaited many an early human, Crane stabbed the scalpel into Joe's hand. Not deep enough to impale the hand, just deep enough to wrench a surprised cry of pain and then a storm of swears from the cabbie. When Joe damned Crane's mother to hell and back, the doctor smiled and kindly removed the scalpel. He felt the same way about the woman who had given birth to him.

"If you can't see your attacker, you have no defense. I suppose being bound with tape doesn't help much either," Crane said.

"Goddamn it! That hurts, damn, you are a bastard," Joe said.

"Of course it hurts, you were stabbed in the hand. I suppose now might also be a good time to tell you that fear toxin, in many cases, makes the subject more susceptible to pain. So, we're going to have some good times ahead of us."

Joe groaned. He doubted if the lunatic's idea of a good time even had beer or pizza. Or if anyone else on the whole planet would consider it fun.

There was, unfortunately, no beer or pizza for Joe in the near future. There was plenty of blood, loads of despair, an excess of horror, and some pitiful animal-like sounds, but there was nothing alcoholic or Italian. Such was his luck.


	8. Inhuman Touch

Thanks ever so much for the reviews. You guys are the greatest.

I had to say Russian dancing bear, didn't I? Hm. I don't know how in the hell to work something that weird into this story, but maybe I'll try.

* * *

Her back hurt, her head pounded, her stomach was tied in more knots than a balloon animal, and her soul felt deflated. In all her life, there hadn't been any situation she could recall where she was more miserable than right now. Danielle wanted to cry on someone's friendly shoulder, to vent her emotions and her misery, but that solution was totally impractical at the moment. Dissolving into tears would help nobody, and it would probably make the Scarecrow giddy.

On the subject of the Scarecrow, he was immensely enjoying himself at Joe's expense. Still covering the cabbie's eyes, Crane was taking his sweet time deciding where to cut next. There was no shortage of ideas, and several possibilities looked exceedingly promising.

Fingers were very sensitive body parts and people abhorred the thought of losing any of their digits. The problem of symmetry had once again appeared, with one hand bleeding and the other unmarked. Or perhaps he'd done enough to the cabbie's hands and changing locations would be wiser. Scarecrow vocally supported going for the face. Crane considered it for a moment, and then decided to treat his devious half.

"Do you prefer the right or left side of your face?"

Okay, his second grade teachers had been wrong, and the Scarecrow had been right. There were stupid questions. And that was one of them. Blind and bloody or stone sober, Joe would have balked at anyone asking such a random and moronic question.

"Ambivalent about it? I'll have to choose, I suppose."

"Choose? Choose what?" Joe asked.

In reply, Crane pressed his scalpel against the cabbie's cheek, not hard enough to draw blood, just hard enough to imply the blade's gory potential. Joe's breath hitched. He couldn't help but imagine the damage the keen edge digging into him would do. It seemed that no matter how valiantly Joe tried, he couldn't subdue his runaway imagination. It was intent on dragging him to dark places, dark places where half his face was peeled off like the skin of an orange.

"Don't worry, you won't live long enough to scar," Crane said. He applied a little more pressure to the scalpel and cleanly cut a straight line down to Joe's chin.

The cabbie jerked away, feeling as though a sizeable piece of skin had been flayed from his cheek. Blood quickly pooled in the three-inch slash and began to trickle down Joe's face. Danielle took one look at this and was overcome by vertigo. Her vision doubled and she went so pale the average vampire would have looked tan by comparison.

"Don't faint, don't you dare faint. Snap out of it, damn it," Danielle hissed to herself. Her attempts to fortify her constitution worked. The gray that had been overtaking her vision retreated and her head stopped acting like it was riding the world's fastest carousel.

"Talking to yourself is never a particularly encouraging sign of mental stability," Crane said absently as he dug the scalpel into the opposite side of Joe's face.

"Neither is cutting people open or riding around with a bag on your head."

Danielle clapped her hands over her mouth and stared at Crane with wide, unbelieving eyes. She couldn't have just done that. She couldn't have back-sassed a psychotic, scalpel-wielding scarecrow; there was just no way she could have been that stupid.

Crane paused in the middle of his work. Without a word to Joe, he removed his hand from the cabbie's eyes and turned away from him. Joe blinked at the sudden re-introduction of the blinding light and tried to figure out exactly how mutilated his face was. He could feel a disconcerting amount of blood running down his cheeks, and prayed his face wouldn't now frighten small children.

"Do you know why I'm cutting him open? Because you are spineless and weak. I'm cutting him because he asked for it, asked to suffer in your stead. You are doing him a great disservice every time you open your mouth. For this transgression—insulting me and implying my mask is a mere _bag_—he's going to pay dearly," Crane said.

Crane's words hurt her worse than a physical blow. Every drop of blood Joe shed was her fault. It should have been her beneath the scalpel; he'd already agreed to be poisoned to spare her and that hadn't been enough. Danielle felt ashamed of her overt selfishness. The desire to cry in self-pity came back even stronger than before.

"I think it's time I put my _bag_ back on. We'll see if you find it more frightening this time," Crane said. He dropped the bloodied scalpel on the table to free his hands. As was his lingering habit, he'd stuck his mask in the case. Now he fetched it and slipped it over his head. Scarecrow took this to be his cue, and Crane willingly gave him control.

Judging by the way the cabbie's mouth fell open, the mask was a good deal scarier than it had appeared without the effects of fear toxin. Excellent.

"What the…?" Joe muttered.

The Scarecrow grinned and the cabbie's mouth dropped open further. What he was seeing, it just wasn't possible. The mask didn't look like the raggedy, half-assed horror movie prop it had when it had first appeared outside his window. It looked like it had bonded perfectly with the Scarecrow's face, looked as though it _was_ his face.

It was revolting. Just looking at it made Joe feel as though something with far too many legs was crawling up his neck. Cold terror gripped him like the clammy hands of a drowned man. He had to look away, to close his eyes.

"You don't like my mask?" the Scarecrow taunted.

Joe, his eyes tightly clenched, refused to answer. No, he didn't like the goddamn thing! He'd prefer the unmasked, human version of the Scarecrow—scalpel and all—over the masked, unarmed version any day. The man beneath the mask looked about as dangerous as a droopy-eared Bassett hound. The horrible monster with the impossible face of animated burlap made the most grotesque Hollywood monster seem cuddly by comparison.

"Open your eyes and _look at me_," the Scarecrow ordered.

"Like hell I will," Joe replied. He'd rather have an intimate encounter with a sea urchin, a cactus, and a malfunctioning table saw.

"Hell, hell I can give you that."

The Scarecrow's hands seized either side of Joe's face, firmly trapping his head. The palms pressed against the still-bleeding gashes that marked both of Joe's cheeks while the fingertips applied headache-inducing pressure to his temples. Worse than the physical pain the hands were inflicting was their unnatural texture. Though it was surely impossible, just a trick of a poisoned brain, the hands didn't feel like the warm, soft hands of a human being. They felt dry and dead, like leather gloves left out in the sun for years.

"Do you know what haphephobia is? I'll help you figure it out," Scarecrow said.

The fingertips that had been digging into his skull abruptly turned gentle. While the Scarecrow's palms were still steady and unrelenting against Joe's injuries, his fingers brushed the cabbie's hairline in an almost intimate gesture. Pain was alright, pain Joe could handle. Those unnatural fingers probing at him with calm curiosity were more revolting than the thought of eating month-old Chinese food.

A memory years old struck Joe like a lightning bolt from the blue. The Scarecrow's fingers running across his temples reminded Joe of something his wife used to do. She'd play with his graying but mercifully not retreating hair, laughing when he tried to swat her away. It had always bothered him. Petting, he'd believed, was reserved for cats and dogs; right now, if he could replace the Scarecrow with his Ohio-bound wife, he'd let her give him a flea bath.

"Any ideas? Haphephobia. I'll give you a hint. It's the fear of something."

"Fear of hands," Joe said. He certainly had a case of that, as well as a wellspring of misery at the loss of his wife. And here he'd been thinking divorce suited him.

"No, that's chirophobia."

The Scarecrow's hands thankfully stopped toying with his hair and Joe could have sobbed with relief. If he ever got out of here, the first thing he was going to do was shower. Or maybe he'd take a more extreme route and just shave off all his hair. He wasn't sure it would ever feel clean unless it all had to grow back afresh.

The eerie hands left his face and travelled lower, settling lightly at the base of the cabbie's neck. They obviously weren't going to do anything pleasant in that position. Joe got a mental image so strong he couldn't shake it of those two suddenly tightening around his throat and strangling the life out of him. Though under normal circumstances, Joe would have scoffed at the idea of being choked to death by a man of Crane's stature, these weren't exactly normal circumstances. And those weren't exactly normal hands.

"Another guess?"

"Fear of having weasels eat your balls." God, how did he make _that_ one up?

"You are a rather resilient subject, do you know that? More annoying than nearly everyone I've ever had the displeasure to meet, but also more durable than most. Breaking your mind is going to be the highlight of my month. I should take pictures for my scrapbook," the Scarecrow said.

Joe knew little about psychology and even less about torturing people. He couldn't begin to fathom how long it would take for his brain to explode, how it would finally feel when he snapped like an overstretched rubber band, or how anyone could enjoy another man's fear. He did, however, know he was quite freaked out at this point and he wanted those hands as far away as possible. Their continued touch made all his skin want to slither off. Their _touch_…

"It's the fear of getting touched, now get your goddamn alien hands off me!"

"You'll die an enlightened man, yet!" the Scarecrow exclaimed.

The hands departed and Joe sent a silent prayer off into the ether where it could be snatched by whatever deity wanted it. Always assuming any of them did.

"Let's try another round. This one you should find somewhat less pleasant."

What could be less pleasant than those inhuman hands? Well, the weasels eating his balls would probably be worse. Opening his eyes and confronting the Scarecrow's burlap face would also trump getting touched. Though maybe not by much. Joe could still feel the hands on him, as though they had left some kind of residue. He strongly wanted to wipe his face, just to get rid of the unclean feeling, but the duct tape didn't give him anywhere enough movement.

"Algophobia. Why don't you try using the Greek root words? _Algos _and _phobos_," the Scarecrow said. Behind his mask, he sneered. As though a man who drove people around for a living knew enough about Greek to tell Homer from a plate of _dolmathakia_.

"Fear of Al Gore," Joe said.

Ever-analytical Crane was intrigued by the cabbie's remark. Under the effects of fear toxin—a diluted dose, yes, but far from harmless—he was still capable of humor. How interesting. Though it was dangerously early in the game to be predicting the outcome, Crane wouldn't be surprised if Joe clung to sanity longer than most of his other victims. The sarcastic bastard was certainly keeping himself together better than a good percentage of test subjects.

"Fear of Al Gore. No, that would probably fall under politicophobia. As a reward for such an entertaining guess, though, you can have a clue."

The clue came in the form of sudden and intense pain as the Scarecrow dug his fingers into the gunshot wound on Joe's arm. Crane bemoaned how difficult it would be to get blood out from under his fingernails, but Scarecrow didn't even hear Jonathan speak. Considering they shared a body and a brain, Scarecrow had to be utterly engaged not to acknowledge the whine of his slightly less savage twin.

Engaged wasn't quite the right word. Fiancés got engaged. If you were in Britain and the phone was busy, that meant the party you were trying to contact was engaged. Scarecrow was in a state closer to bliss. He had finally started to crack the cabbie's shell and he was just getting the fear he lived to see.

Jesus H. Christ did that hurt! It took more willpower than Joe thought he possessed to bite back a scream, but bite it back he did. He wasn't going to give the Scarecrow that satisfaction just yet.

"If that clue didn't help you, I don't think anything short of writing out the answer will."

"Fear of pain, it's the fear of pain! Get your claws out of my arm!"

The Scarecrow removed his probing fingers as a reward for Joe's right answer. They came away wet with a copious amount of blood. In his excitement, Scarecrow didn't realize just how much damage he'd managed to do until faced with the bright red evidence.

Crane was droning on like a television someone had left on in another room. At the sight of all that blood, he immediately began to worry about the possibility of contracting a blood borne illness. What if Joe had hepatitis or something like that? Why couldn't Scarecrow consider the consequences before he went jamming his hand into people? Crane had to use that hand later!

Ignoring Crane's paranoid, buzz killing worrying, Scarecrow looked for something to clean his hand off with. Though he wasn't exactly worried about contracting a disease from Joe's blood, he didn't want to go dripping fluid all over his equipment. Bloodstains were nearly impossible to get out once they set in.

The Scarecrow spotted the shirt that had served as a makeshift bandage. It was already soiled with blood, and a little more certainly wouldn't hurt. He picked up the shirt and examined the baseball logo it was printed with. Though Crane wasn't a sports fan, many people he'd encountered both in Arkham and the wider world were. There was an almost unanimous agreement among all them that the team whose colors he now held would be better off playing high school softball.

After wiping his hands, the Scarecrow balled the shirt up and looked to toss it to Danielle. He stopped when he noticed just how wretched she looked. She was pallid and trembling. In fact, she looked on the verge of passing out.

She'd told herself, sometime ago, not to faint. The Scarecrow recalled that now. What had he been doing during that time to cause such a reaction? He paged through his memory and realized he'd been using the scalpel on Joe's face. Putting the two situations together, the Scarecrow had an epiphany.

She was hematophobic: frightened of blood. Grinning maliciously, the Scarecrow followed through with his original plan. He chucked the bloodied shirt onto Danielle's lap.

Danielle took one look at the gory bundle and felt her consciousness slip away. A moan that sounded like the bellow of a dying ox escaped her lips and she collapsed in a cold faint.

* * *

_Dolmathakia_, since I'm sure many of you are as clueless as Joe, is a Greek dish that consists of stuffed grape leaves.

This should be the most bloody chapter of the story. From here on out, it'll start getting a little more psychological. I don't want to write a slasher film, after all.


	9. Bad Medicine

Well, folks, I worked my tail off and here's a new chapter in record speed. I hope you enjoy.

Thanks to the reviewers. As I've said before and I will say again, you guys are the greatest. Seriously, give yourselves a round of applause. You inspire me to write and not just laze away my weekends. Thanks for making me productive and for encouraging me. I hope this chapter satisfies you.

To Tapidum Lucidum: I wish I knew your penname so I could PM you. I'd love to go into great and exquisite detail regarding why this story will never be a romance. To sum up all and any possible arguments I could make, I will ask this question: Would you fall for a guy who kidnapped you, made you miss your granny's birthday, and who then in no unclear terms, promised to drive you insane and kill you? I would hope not. Thank you for continuing to read and review, but I cannot give you the romance you desire.

* * *

Oh God, what had she done last night? Hadn't she promised herself that, no matter how pathetic her friends got, she wouldn't get plastered the night before an eight-hour flight? Hadn't she purposely turned off her cell phone and refused to open her laptop so she couldn't be tempted by texts or instant messages? Hadn't she said, point blank, that a week in Gotham with her grandmother did not qualify as a reason the throw her a going-away party, seeing as how she would be back in days? How had they roped her into this?

Danielle groaned and shifted. Whatever was beneath her was hard and cold and obviously not her bed. Her room was carpeted, and the floor beneath her wasn't. That meant she must have fallen asleep either in the bathroom or in her apartment's kitchenette.

The pulsing agony in her head suggested she'd gotten into a boxing match with Muhammad Ali and had—surprise, surprise—lost. Moving her head even slightly increased the pain to the point she wished she had no head. Danielle berated her head for aching, her will for giving into her friends' really quite stupid plans, and her friends for coming up with said stupid plans.

After giving her head a minute to settle down, Danielle figured she'd have to suck it up and crawl to the medicine cabinet for some aspirin. A hangover headache this bad wasn't going to go away on its own. Modern medicine would have to help move it along.

To ascertain if she was on the kitchen or bathroom floor, Danielle opened her eyes. They were instantly flooded with white light so sharp it practically stabbed her optic nerves. She hastily closed her eyes and moaned again.

That was strange. There were no white rooms in her apartment. The bathroom had lilac-colored wallpaper and the kitchen was painted a mellow cornflower blue. Neither room had lights bright enough to account for the glare.

Knowing she'd regret it when her head literally exploded like a grenade, Danielle sat up. There was no splatter of brain-matter and bone splinters. What a relief.

Danielle raised a hand to her tortured head, only to find its twin tagged along. She tried to move her hands apart; they refused to venture more than a few inches from each other. In confusion, Danielle opened her eyes, squinting to block out some of the light.

Handcuffs? What in the hell was she doing in _handcuffs_?

Then it all came back to her, rushing in like floodwaters through a burst dike. She had already taken her flight, had already landed in Gotham. She had been late and desperate enough to bribe a cabbie to break the speed limit. They'd nearly run into a horse. The rider had been pissed to the _nth_ degree. He'd kidnapped them, brought them to the Narrows, and he was torturing Joe. There had been blood, and she'd passed out.

This dreadful realization spawned a swarm of questions. How long had she been out for? What had happened while she'd been unconscious? Where was the Scarecrow? Was Joe still alive?

"That was too easy. You won't make a very interesting subject at all if you faint like a Southern belle overcome by the vapors," the Scarecrow said.

The mystery of the Scarecrow had been solved. He was reclining in his comfortable chair, twirling his scalpel between his fingers with easy dexterity. The fingers on one hand still bore unmistakable red smudges.

"Congratulations. You made a woman faint. That makes you a real tough guy. Why don't you try to piss standing up while you're at it?"

And that solved the mystery of Joe. He was still firmly duct taped to his chair, but he was looking directly at her and he looked far more angry than afraid. While she'd been out, the effect of the toxin must have worn off.

"I'm glad you finally decided to wake up. Out of the kindness of my heart, I've been waiting to administer the next dose until you came around. It wouldn't have been fair to let you miss it."

"I tried to piss the little runt bastard off so he'd stick me and you wouldn't have to see it. Should have called him Elton John's boyfriend a couple of more times," Joe said.

The Scarecrow's hands clenched briefly into fists and then relaxed. He obviously didn't like his test subjects calling his sexuality into question. Danielle couldn't find it in her heart to be sympathetic.

"Since you've rejoined the land of the living, we can proceed to the second stage of testing. Once again, permanent damage is unlikely, though some mental trauma is inevitable," the Scarecrow said.

He stopped playing with the scalpel and placed it on the table. With his hands now free, he turned towards his case and the assorted objects it held. Both Joe and Danielle had grown to hate that case.

Danielle's body moved almost without her volition. With a slowness brought on by pain and unsteadiness, Danielle got to her feet. She lurched like a zombie towards the Scarecrow. His hands stilled and he watched the woman's clumsy gait, eagerly waiting for her to stumble.

"If you're going to attack me or attempt escape, you might consider moving faster," Scarecrow quipped.

"If I do, I'll be sick. But I'm not planning to do either of those things. Please, just-"

"No, I will not change my plan. He's my fount of knowledge until his death, and then I move on to you."

Frustration made her want to scream and yank her hair. Doing either of those things would only serve to further aggrieve her headache, though. So instead of breaking into honking sobs, she made another request.

"Can I have my Tylenol, then?"

The Scarecrow had all but forgotten about the Tylenol. He checked the table and noticed that the packets were still sitting where Schiff had left them. That was to be expected, of course; it wasn't like medicine often became sentient and went exploring.

"My head hurts," Danielle said.

"I suppose it would. You did smash it spectacularly against the floor when you fainted. It made a sound like two blocks of wood hitting each other," the Scarecrow replied.

Danielle imagined the sound and the pain in her head spiked. Thank God she'd been unconscious for that.

"Yes, take your Tylenol and go sit down. I'd rather not have you bashing your brains in yet."

Cautiously, Danielle inched closer to the table. She was reluctant to get into striking range yet she strongly wanted the Tylenol. Though it wasn't exactly morphine, it might be able to at least chip away at the monstrous pain in her head. It was so bad right now even thinking was difficult. She had to be more clear headed and less pathetic on the off chance an opportunity to do something of use arose.

Thanks to the mask, reading the Scarecrow's expressions was impossible. He could have been smiling, scowling, crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out, and nobody would have been the wiser. Danielle had no idea what kind of mood he was in as she slunk close enough to grab her medicine. It made her jumpier than a frog on a hotplate.

"I'm not going to _bite_, I swear," the Scarecrow said.

Praying he wasn't going to do anything else, Danielle's hand inched toward the packets. The Scarecrow remained still, his posture relaxed. Maybe he wasn't going to mess with her. It was impossible to guess; he had one hell of a poker face, after all.

"Find your water bottle while you're at it. I'll make sure it gets recycled."

"You _recycle_?" The sheer improbability of the statement made Danielle's tongue bypass her brain. The words were out before she could debate speaking them.

"Everyone recycles. Coming from Seattle, you ought to know that."

"But-but you're _evil_!"

"But not too evil to recycle. Now show a little motivation and get a move on."

Danielle snatched up the Tylenol and then, shuffling more like an octogenarian than a woman in her prime years, headed off to find her water bottle. The Scarecrow had kicked it across the room and it had rolled against the wall. She picked it up and went back to her chair.

"Does anyone else have any requests or can we move onto the next order of business?" the Scarecrow asked. His tone suggested that, on the off chance anyone did have requests, they'd be wise to keep them unspoken.

"Yeah, I've got a couple for you. First, I want beer. I don't care what kind, just so there's a lot of it. Then I want these goddamn cuffs and tape off. And then I want you to get a pencil sharpener, the electric kind, and I want you to stick you-"

"You can either be quiet or, so help me, the next needle goes in your neck!"

The threat was enough to make Joe flinch. He wanted to experience that about as much as he wanted to stick his finger down a garbage disposal. Wisely, he shut up.

"I'm tempted to do it anyway, you loquacious irritant."

On that subject, it really was high time for the second dose. The cabbie had recovered more than sufficiently from the initial treatment and the Scarecrow was sick and tired of hearing him jabber. A little bit of Joe tended to go a long way.

Not bothering to make a show of it, the Scarecrow removed a vial from the case. It was identical to the first, the contents and labeling seemingly the same. Only chemical analysis or unlucky firsthand experience would be able to distinguish the two poisons.

"If you were planning on taking your Tylenol, take it now. I strongly doubt you'll be in the mood or have the stomach to in a few minutes," the Scarecrow said.

Danielle realized her hand had closed so tightly around the packets she had crushed them. She opened her hand and dropped the Tylenol onto her lap. Since handcuffs made everything harder, she had to carefully balance opening the water bottle, tearing open the packets, and getting both to her mouth without drowning herself or dropping the caplets on the floor. Somehow, she managed.

Once Danielle was finished and had recapped the bottle, the Scarecrow proceeded. He wanted her to pay close attention, so the anticipation would build up. By the time her turn came around, in what would likely be many, many horrific hours, she would already be scared out of her wits.

"This is going to produce a much stronger reaction than the first dose. Your prefrontal cortex—that would be the area of your brain responsible for long-term memory—will be affected. Your past will literally come back to haunt you. You will also experience more vivid hallucinations, so if you thought my mask was bad before, you are in for a surprise. Any questions?" Scarecrow said.

"Why weren't you shot?" Joe asked.

"What?"

"When the cops or Batman or whoever arrested you, why didn't they just blow your goddamn head off? They had to realize you weren't going to rejoin society as a rehabilitated normal person, or whatever the hell the goal is nowadays," the cabbie said.

The _Batman_. Scarecrow wanted to leap across the table like a demonic kangaroo and tear Joe's eyes from their sockets. Batman was the reason he was reduced to kidnapping random passersby and experimenting on them. Batman was the reason he had no job, he was disgraced, he was one of America's most wanted, and he was living in the Narrows with a schizophrenic who thought Larry King was trying to hypnotize him. Batman had, in a single night, effectively ruined Jonathan Crane's life.

And if all that hadn't been enough, the winged bastard had had the audacity to use Crane's greatest invention against him. Scarecrow seethed with rage at the memory. The protective mask torn off, Batman looking like some darkness that had escaped from Hell, fear like he hadn't experienced in years… And then the toxic mist in his face, inhaling, his brilliant mind temporarily torn asunder. He'd never forgive the Bat for those hours of madness.

"You are going to be very, very sorry," Scarecrow hissed.

Joe was well aware that he'd dug a hole far too deep to ever escape from. He'd gotten in his jabs—obviously he'd pissed the Scarecrow off and that counted as a victory—and now the only thing he could do was steel himself for whatever was going to happen.

Ignoring the laws of modern medicine that forbade the reuse of needles, the Scarecrow drew a dose of fear toxin into syringe he'd already stabbed into Joe once. There really was no reason to waste limited supplies on test subjects who were doomed, anyway. The risk of contamination hardly mattered when the fluid being injected was designed to break the mind and trigger horrible hallucinations.

The cabbie put on a remarkably impassive face as the Scarecrow approached him. Danielle, though she wasn't the target, shrunk against the back of her chair. She had no idea how Joe remained so calm, but she envied the ability.

Instead of restraining his arm as he'd done last time, the Scarecrow's empty hand seized Joe's throat. The hand squeezed almost hard enough to choke, and the cabbie's breath came only with great difficulty.

"I gave you ample warning. You were aware of the consequences, and now you can bear them."

Screw this. Screw this with a rusty railroad spike. He was not going to be poked in the jugular without one bitch of a fight.

Joe jerked his head back violently. The Scarecrow lost his hold on the cabbie's throat and before he could reach forward and regain it, Joe had struck. He did the only thing he could think of to defend himself.

He bit the Scarecrow. His teeth sunk into the meaty part of the hand where the thumb is attached to the body. The Scarecrow yowled and Joe mentally roared with triumph. Never mind the fact he'd been reduced to fighting like a cornered mutt. The Scarecrow had screamed before his victim.

The cabbie's joy was short-lived. Though his hand was being chewed like a tough piece of steak, Scarecrow managed to keep enough wits about him to remember the needle he held. He sunk the needle into Joe's arm as hard as he could.

It felt like he'd been stung by a bee roughly the size of an albatross. Joe grimaced but held doggedly onto the hand. The Scarecrow would get his evil hand back when he-

The world became a nightmare.

* * *

I doubt if the next update will be as quick, but I'll do my best. Thanks again for reading.


	10. Overlooked

No, this is not an April Fools' Day joke. This is serious business. This is...Sparta! And Chapter 10.

All strangeness aside, thanks as always to my reviewers. I will stand and deliver on the Russian dancing bear, but not in this chapter. Sorry.

* * *

Just before his highly evolved—but sometimes misused—mind was thrown into chaos, Joe tasted tangy copper and knew it meant one thing: he'd bitten the Scarecrow's hand so hard it had started to bleed. The thought nearly made him nauseous. Here he was, fastened on like a pit bull, and he was getting another man's blood in his mouth. A crazy man's blood. A crazy man who liked to dress up as a scarecrow and torture people who were just trying to make it out of life alive.

And then the cohesion and logic was knocked from his head. It was as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to him. Joe's mind reeled, his five senses were sent sprawling, his basic cognitive function all but destroyed. He couldn't think, couldn't reason, couldn't smart-mouth the Scarecrow. All he could do was choke.

A clinical observer removed from the physical and emotional effects of fear toxin would have found logic in what Joe was suddenly experiencing. If the cabbie believed the Scarecrows hands were inhuman, it would make perfect sense for his blood to be some abnormal ichor, as well. Joe, however, didn't have the luxury of distance. He was in the thick of it, his mind taken prisoner by a ruthless enemy. When a taste too horrible to describe flooded his mouth, the only thing he could do was choke.

Joe spat out the hand just in time to avoid getting a needle in the eye. Scarecrow, as desperate to escape as any animal with its foot caught in a trap, had only one weapon to assistant him. He was on the verge of stabbing the now empty syringe into Joe's face, probably killing him in the process, when the teeth were removed.

Scarecrow wasted no time wrenching his hand away. He impulsively considered driving the needle into the cabbie's eye out of rage, but held back for one reason. Death would be a one and done affair. Though it would be quite satisfying to snuff the cabbie out by stabbing a medical instrument into his brain, it was too quick an end. Slow, agonizing, terrifying revenge would be more fulfilling. He dropped the needle so he couldn't be tempted with instant gratification.

Crane was removed to a degree from the pain in his hand, but he was still practically shrieking. Since Scarecrow was too focused on plotting revenge, it was Crane who had to worry about things like tetanus, the billions of bacteria that thrived in the human mouth, the infection some of those bacteria could cause, and how badly it would suck if he had to have his hand amputated because gangrene set in. To prevent such a scenario from occurring, Crane momentarily regained control.

That might have been a mistake. While Scarecrow dealt with pain by becoming loud and violent, Crane tended to deal with it by moaning and seeking out medication. Without his violent half to filter some of the agony from the bite, Crane was forced to take it all and manage best he could.

There was a clear, deep impression of a complete set of human teeth pressed into the meat of his hand. His thumb refused to work right—it was stiff and any movement of the digit doubled the pain Crane felt—and there was a frightening amount of blood dripping from the wound. He had to take care of this now. Breaking the cabbie would have to wait until he got his hand bandaged.

"Don't you even think about trying to escape. Don't even think about leaving that chair!" Crane said to Danielle. She nodded automatically, her eyes fixed on the rivulets of blood that were streaking his hand.

Having warned Danielle, Crane headed for the door. He would get Thomas to guard the test subjects again. Then he would do what he could for his poor, poor hand.

Crane left his ghastly white laboratory and proceeded down a few doors. Without bothering to knock, Crane opened the door and wasn't particularly thrilled with what he found.

Schiff was seated mere inches from the television, his face bathed in the glow of the idiot box. If TVs were ever proven to be carcinogenic, Thomas Schiff would doubtlessly wind up with all known types of cancer.

"Thomas! Stop staring down Nancy Grace and help me!"

The schizophrenic muttered something too low for Crane to hear. That only served to darken the doctor's already jet-black mood. On a more normal day, he would have simply told Thomas to speak louder and clearer so human ears could perceive him. Tonight, Crane threatened to reduce Thomas to a sniveling heap in the corner.

That broke whatever spell the television had over Thomas. His head whipped from the three arguing lawyers on the screen to the figure standing in his doorway. Much to Thomas' horror, the figure was wearing a mask he just couldn't stand no matter how hard he tried.

"Forget the mask, I'm not catering to your sickness right now! Thomas, either stop hiding your head or I _will_ let Scarecrow play with you."

"Dr. Crane, please…"

Crane let his control slip a notch and Scarecrow spoke, "Tommy, it's been a while. I always did like you, you know. Your screams have this unique timbre and-"

"Alright! Just put him away, please, Dr. Crane."

When Schiff finally removed his hands from his eyes, Crane explained the situation. He showed Thomas his gory hand and the schizophrenic reacted with a surprising amount of compassion and outrage. That was a good sign, relating to his recovery. Schizophrenics had a difficult time relating to people and expressing empathy. If not for the fact his hand had just been mauled, Crane would have congratulated Thomas on his great step forward.

"I need you to watch the cabbie and the woman until I fix this. He's not going to be a threat. He may scream or talk to people who aren't there, but ignore him. The woman, keep your focus on her," Crane said.

Schiff nodded like a bobble head. He obediently followed Crane from the room, forgetting all about the things Nancy had been in the middle of telling him. They didn't seem very important right now.

Crane and Thomas parted ways. The schizo entered the room that housed Danielle and Joe, while Crane went to fetch the well-stocked first aid kit he kept alongside his chemicals. He always kept the kit handy when he was brewing fear toxin, because if anything did go wrong with the process, he probably wouldn't make it a very long distance before being overcome with terror.

As soon as Crane had left the room, Danielle had sprung into action. She didn't know what kept her from freezing up—survival instinct, probably—but she was digging through her suitcase like a madwoman before Crane made it to Thomas' room. The jumbled mess made the search harder, but she was not going to quit until she had the phone in her hands.

With clothing and various toiletries littering the floor, she finally emerged triumphant. Wasting no time, she powered on the cell phone. Danielle held her breath as the various loading screens and company logos flashed on the screen.

Just as the home screen lit up, the door opened. _No, no, please not yet_. She needed just five more seconds.

"What's that?"

Thank you God and Allah and Buddha and Brahma and Zeus and Elvis. That wasn't the Scarecrow's voice, it was the twitchy man. Danielle was quite sure she could distract him long enough to dial three numbers.

"It's nothing," she said as her finger carefully crept towards the '9' button.

"It's _something_," Schiff countered.

"It's nothing for you." Her finger now resting on the one. Two quick jabs and rescue would be on the way.

"911, what is your emergency?"

Schiff looked at the phone as though it had just suggested he have intercourse with a light socket. Danielle looked at it as a pilgrim would a holy shrine.

"I'm being held by the Scarecrow in the Narrows! The apartment building I'm in is at least three stories and-"

Putting all that restless, relentless energy to good use, Schiff bounded across the room and tackled Danielle. She tumbled from the chair, the phone flying from her hands. Thomas landed on top of her, squashing her, and immediately scrambled for the cell phone. Danielle managed to grab his shoe and trip him before he could snatch the phone from the floor.

"Let go!" Schiff yelled, kicking his foot to free it from Danielle's grip. She held on with grim tenacity.

Some lizards and salamanders have detachable tails they can shed if a predator grabs them. Though Thomas was strictly warm-blooded, he did have a similar defense mechanism. Danielle had grabbed the shoe that lacked laces. With a little manipulation of his ankle, he slipped the shoe off and scrambled on his hands and knees towards the phone.

_Oh, shit_. Danielle was left flat on the floor, clutching a sneaker. Before she could even hope to stop the schizophrenic ball of nervous energy, he had seized the phone and was looking for a button to cancel the call. The 911 operator was still on the line, asking for names and details nobody could provide. Finally, Schiff located the power button and shut the phone off. The operator was cut off mid-question and Danielle wondered if she'd even bother sending out police. What would the responding officers even have to look for? An apartment building with over three floors. How many of those were in the Narrows?

"Dr. Crane won't like this. He won't at all. He's going to set Scarecrow on you," Schiff said.

"I'm going to kick your ass if you don't give back my phone!" Danielle said. Her threat fell flat mainly because she was still sprawled on the ground.

Schiff tittered and backed away from Danielle on the off chance she did try to plant her foot on his posterior. He wanted to run to Dr. Crane and explain what had happened, but he didn't want to abandon his post. He had been instructed to remain in the room no matter what. Disobeying Dr. Crane might mean awful consequences. Dancing around with a stolen cell phone until the doctor got back didn't look very appealing, either. Schiff wasn't a particularly good fighter—his brain couldn't stay on task long enough to form a strategy—and he'd been ground into the dirt before. Not by girls, but there was a first time for everything.

While Thomas was busy confiscating phones, Crane was busy patching himself up. He had taken his first aid kit from the laboratory into the bathroom, where'd he have a sink to drip blood into. Now he gently prodded the bite, trying to determine just how much damage Joe had done to him.

The teeth marks were probably clear enough to make an accurate dental cast. Crane grimaced at the ugly wound. It was revolting to think what germs had been allowed freely past the barrier of his skin and might now be plotting to settle down in his tissue and multiple. He'd have to do something to prevent that.

Unfortunately, that something was going to hurt. He'd have to first wash all the blood off, then disinfect the bite.

To make matters worse, Scarecrow was growling with impatience. He wanted the cleanup over and done with so he could get on to the good part, namely torturing the hell out of the biting cabbie. It was quite hard to effectively treat any kind of injury while the voices in your head were banging around like enraged chimpanzees.

After what felt like roughly an infinity plus a few eons—but was hardly two minutes—of hesitation on Crane's part, Scarecrow volunteered to take care of the messy and unpleasant business. Crane and his low pain tolerance happily retreated. Focusing on how badly he was going to maim Joe, Scarecrow turned on the tap and stuck his hand into the water.

A few minutes later, Scarecrow finished bandaging his hand. The job wasn't as neat or precise as Crane's would have been, but it served its purpose. Before Crane could suggest he waste any time cleaning up the sink—supplies from the first aid kit were strewn all over the bathroom—Scarecrow headed out the door. Crane could spend the next nine years scrubbing every inch of grout for all Scarecrow cared. Right now, he had business to attend to.

Trying not to flex his thumb or use the bitten hand unless absolutely necessary, the Scarecrow hurried back to his unwilling captives. Leaving Thomas alone with anyone for an extended period of time couldn't end well. The sooner he could send the schizophrenic back to the loving embrace of Nancy Grace and her shrieking team of lawyers and her parade of victims, the sooner the cabbie would learn what it truly meant to be afraid.

Arriving at the door, the Scarecrow opened it and stepped in. He was greeted with a truly bizarre scene. Schiff had climbed onto the table and was holding something over his head. The pose he struck made him look a bit like the Statue of Liberty. The woman was scowling at him, her face flushed and stormy. Something had obviously occurred while the Scarecrow had been away.

"Does anyone care to explain this situation or should I just gas the both of you and watch you writhe around on the floor?"

For a second, nobody spoke. Then Thomas went off like a bomb. Madly waving his arm, he leapt off the table and ran straight for the Scarecrow. Apparently, whatever he had clutched in his hand trumped his fear of the burlap mask.

"Dr. Crane, she had this!"

"And what is _this_, exactly?" the Scarecrow inquired.

"Phone. Cell phone. She called the cops. Or tried to. I hung up on them."

The Scarecrow's blood boiled. How could he have been stupid enough not to assume a woman in her twenties carried a cell phone? Everyone on Earth had a cell phone! The goddamn Dali Lama had one!

Turning the fury he felt at his own grave error on Danielle, Scarecrow stalked towards her. Schiff, sensing things were about to turn ugly, quietly made his escape. Danielle had nowhere to run. She backed up until she collided with the table.

Danielle was struck with a feeling of dread so strong it could only be called a premonition. The Scarecrow, approaching with all the grimness of the Reaper, was going to kill her.

* * *

Since I doubt if there will be a new chapter by Easter, I'll wish everyone an early happy Easter.


	11. Payment

Thank you to the best, most fantastic and frabjous reviewers on the planet.

* * *

There was no more room for retreat. The table was to her back, and any attempt to break to the right or left would lead to a merry three second chase that could only end with the Scarecrow knocking her to the ground and killing her. If she was going to die--and she was nearly positive she was--then she would die facing her murderer. She hadn't managed to put on much of a brave face thus far, but she could at least go out with some dignity.

Danielle felt her heart accelerate wildly, as though it was in violent denial about its impending cessation. Her palms were slick with sweat and she wanted to blot them on her jeans. Fear that any sudden movement, even drying her hands, might lead the Scarecrow to strike kept her still. When death was so clear on the horizon, every second was precious. Time mattered as it never had before.

"How much did your little phone call give away?"

That voice was as cold as Siberian winter and as venomous as a box jellyfish. It seemed to have the power to steal the words of whomever it was directed at, rendering that unlucky soul mute. Danielle couldn't form the sentences she wanted to and her inability to give answers gave the Scarecrow a reason to grow angrier.

With strength Danielle still found surprising despite the past displays, the Scarecrow seized her shoulders. His fingers dug into her like claws. Ignoring the pain that flared in his badly bitten hand, Scarecrow shook Danielle. Her head snapped back and forth and what little the Tylenol had managed to accomplish was nullified.

"Now, I'm going to assume you called 911, because that's what any sensible person would do. How much did you tell the operator?"

What should she do? Should she lie, tell him the police knew more than enough to bust him? If the Scarecrow thought his hideout was going to be swarmed with every officer in Gotham in the next five minutes, how would he react? Would he just kill his victims, burn the place down, and make a swift exit? Maybe he'd burn the place down _without_ killing them first. Or, most likely, he'd catch her in a lie and make her bleed.

"Not much," Danielle finally admitted.

"Specifics. Give me the actual conversation."

"I told her I was being held by the Scarecrow in an apartment building. That's it. Your crazy friend tackled me before I could say anything else."

The Scarecrow was able to breathe a sigh of relief. Really, the only way she could have given a vaguer description of her prison would be to simply call it _somewhere_. The Narrows was full of poorly built and maintained drab apartment buildings that looked like refugees from the poverty of Soviet Russia. The police—if they even bothered to come looking on such a useless tip—would waste vast amounts of time waking very cranky, often-armed people up in the middle of the night. Barring the cops stumbling across them by sheer dumb luck—as though the GCPD ever relied on anything else, the bumbling blue idiots—Scarecrow was sure they were safe.

He'd dodged a bullet, though the round had come close enough to singe his hairs. Scarecrow had felt a fleeting moment of panic when Schiff presented the cell phone. If the schizophrenic had been just a little slower, all of Scarecrow's fun might have been ruined. For causing so much trouble, the woman had to pay.

Rather, her maddening, loud-mouthed friend had to pay by proxy. In all the ruckus, Joe had been forgotten. Now he was remembered.

Scarecrow released his vice-like grip on Danielle's shoulders. Doubtlessly, he'd held her tight enough to leave bruises. She winced and looked up at him with uncertainty.

"Go back to your seat. If your foot so much as twitches without my permission, I'm going to nail you in place," the Scarecrow warned.

Scurrying like a frightened woodland creature, Danielle hurried to her seat. She sat as still and straight as possible, considering the pain and stiffness in her lower back. Pressing up against the edge of the table was not exactly therapeutic for an already aching back.

"There is one small matter we still need to take care of: your blatant escape attempt. I can't ignore the fact that you came within a hair's breadth of forcing me back onto the street. The repercussions will be severe, as I'm sure you can imagine."

Danielle swallowed compulsively. Considering she had expected to be brutally murdered, yes, she had been anticipating some awful consequences. Since the Scarecrow wasn't revoking her right to life, not at the moment, she could only imagine what sick and agonizing punishment he'd devise for her misbehavior.

"I could do any number of excruciatingly nasty things to you. Exploiting your hematophobia would be a real treat, though one I've been able to indulge in before. I'm positive your reaction to a few cuts here and there would be deeply satisfying."

If just being tossed a bloody shirt had been enough to make her faint like a damsel in the days before strong female role models, then Danielle shuddered to think what seeing her own blood would do to her. Why did she have to wear her phobias like a giant neon sign? Why couldn't she have been stronger, like Joe? He had been the one actually bleeding and he'd taken it much better.

"I certainly could paint the room crimson, but I have some good news for you. I won't. I won't lay one finger on you."

That was too good to be true. Danielle had always been too smart to fall for Internet scams, and she was too smart to believe the Scarecrow wouldn't hurt her. Besides, there were more loopholes in his statement than in the average law passed by Congress. He didn't have to touch her with his hands to cause her pain. He could stand at the other end of the room and chuck scalpels at her.

"There's a catch. There's got to be one," Danielle said.

"Of course there is. If _you_ don't suffer the consequences, someone else has to take your place. I'm not going to do it, I'm not going to drag Thomas back in here to; so I believe that leaves only one person."

"Joe," Danielle whispered in horror.

"I am going to lay bare his darkest, deepest fears and you will get to watch the complete and utter destruction of a man. It will literally be a once in a lifetime opportunity for both of you. Try to stay conscious," the Scarecrow said.

Danielle's eyes followed the Scarecrow as he left her and moved to stand directly in front of the bound cabbie. She was afraid of what she would see. Joe was her pillar, her support, her protector. Though she'd only known him for a few hours, he had grown from an anonymous cab driver to the most heroic person she'd ever met. For seemingly no reason, he'd thrown his body in front of the proverbial bullet. Seeing him quivering, as helpless as she was, would break her heart.

The Scarecrow performed a quick visual diagnosis to gage just how deep the fear toxin had dragged Joe. The results were promising. The cabbie's eyes were tightly closed and sweat beaded his forehead and cheeks; Scarecrow wondered how badly the salt stung the twin gashes that marked Joe's face and barely withheld his sadistic laughter. Joe's lips moved silently but nearly constantly. It was impossible to ascertain what he was mouthing: a desperate mantra, a plea, a prayer? His breathing had also become more erratic, though not the great, sobbing gasps Scarecrow could wring from people. All in good time, he supposed.

"If you were a dog, you'd be put down for biting like that. I don't think you deserve anything as painless as euthanasia, though. You won't get the peace of oblivion until I am finished with you and I have hardly begun to work," the Scarecrow said.

At the sound of the Scarecrow's voice, directed solely at him, the tempo of Joe's heart sped up a little. That wasn't good. If mere words could trigger a response, what would the actual torture do to him?

"How do you like the stronger dose? What long-dead memories did it reanimate? What are you seeing inside your head?" the Scarecrow asked.

Joe was silent and his lips were now still. He might have been able to produce a coherent answer if he'd wanted to, but the chances were iffy. His mind was hardly his own and monsters roamed freely across the landscape of his neurons.

"So you still have control of verbal response? I suppose that means you won't be screaming just yet. Not without a little motivation, at least."

Scarecrow was only too eager to provide that motivation. Though Crane wasn't exactly going to be canonized anytime soon, Scarecrow came up with plots and schemes that made even the doctor uncomfortable. Some of those schemes were impractical to implement—where would one find a hive of giant Japanese hornets in Gotham?—but all of them were grotesque and horrifying. If Joe could have looked into the Scarecrow's mind and seen what the psychopath had planned for him, he might have screamed.

Because Joe lacked telepathy, he could only wait for the Scarecrow to get down to business. He didn't have to wait long. The Scarecrow knew that sometimes it was best to let the victim stew in his own fear for a while. Other situations called for swift action. Nearly having his thumb chewed off fit snuggly in the latter category.

The first order of business was to avenge the biting incident. The woman might have nearly ruined his plans, but the cabbie had spilled his blood. Scarecrow took that personally.

Since the days of Hammurabi, taking an eye for an eye was seen as an acceptable way to mete out justice. Most Americans preferred a trial by jury judicial system, but Scarecrow, who had more firsthand experience with lawyers and judges and police than he would have liked, had a soft spot for the older codes. He thrived on the idea of revenge: revenge against the people who had made Crane's childhood an endless nightmare, revenge on the snooping assistant DA, revenge on the Batman. And now revenge against Joe.

Obviously, the Scarecrow wasn't going to exact revenge by biting Joe. He had far sharper instruments than teeth at his disposal. His trusty scalpel was just the tool for the job.

The Scarecrow retrieved the sleek silver blade from the table. Though a scalpel didn't carry quite the ominous effect of the carving knives preferred by one of Crane's former patients, it fit perfectly in the doctor's hand. His hands were quick and nimble, and the scalpel—a delicate and precise tool—accentuated these features.

"Do you know how many teeth a human adult has?" the Scarecrow asked.

If Joe did know, he wasn't sharing with the rest of the class. Scarecrow decided silence implied ignorance and continued.

"32 teeth. Thanks to you, I have a physical reminder. It would only be fair to return the favor."

With the speed of a striking serpent, the Scarecrow's hand darted out and snagged Joe's wrist. Judging by the violent way the cabbie jerked away, it did appear as though he'd felt venomous fangs pierce him. The Scarecrow maintained his grip and Joe struggled harder.

The inhuman hand was back and it was incalculably worse. The fingers firmly wrapped around his wrist were worse than skittering spider legs or rat paws. They were worse than the endless parade of feet millipedes and centipedes sported. They were worse than any animal or human appendage Joe had ever seen in his entire life.

"I would recommend remaining still for this procedure. It involves sharp implements," the Scarecrow said.

Joe's breath caught in his throat. Left entirely to his own devices, with nobody threatening him and no unnatural hands touching him, he'd been in a constant state of fear and tension. Words alone goaded his heart to speed up. What would pain do to him?

"That's better. I really would hate to miss and accidentally cut something vital." That was a blatant lie. Scarecrow would have thoroughly enjoyed nicking a vein and watching the results.

The cabbie's hand was trembling in his unforgiving grip. Grinning at the prospect of adding to Joe's misery, Scarecrow set to pay back the bite.

The scalpel slipped easily into the meat of Joe's hand. Blood welled up around the stainless steel and pain radiated like heat from the cut. Joe's hand instinctively curled into a fist as a man under assault will instinctively make himself smaller and protect his vulnerable guts by assuming the fetal position.

Like a sewing machine needle, the scalpel rhythmically exited and stabbed into the cabbie. By the fourth jab, blood had begun to drip from Joe's hand, staining his pants. By the eighth, Joe's pants had become so dappled with red they looked tie-dyed. At the halfway point, the sixteenth jab, Joe was resisting the urge to beg for clemency. By the twenty-fourth, he was quickly losing the battle to maintain his dignity and his silence.

"Scream if you'd like. I encourage it. Though pain and fear produce entirely different sounds, I enjoy both," Scarecrow said.

Joe would help Kim Jong Il take over the world before he'd make the Scarecrow happy. He grit his teeth and endured best he could. Like all things, both good and bad, the torture eventually had to end.

Finally, the blade left his skin and did not return. He'd been bitten by the scalpel 32 times exactly. His hand shook uncontrollably and blood dripped steadily from it like rain off a leaf. Though none of the cuts had been particularly deep or even agonizing on their own, the cumulative effect made Joe feel like his entire hand was on fire.

There was a part of Scarecrow, ever so small but still present, that admired Joe. The cabbie was one stubborn, sardonic, ill-tempered bastard, but he had _cojones_. A lesser man would have been crying like a lost child if his hand had been stabbed nearly three dozen times.

The part that wanted to see Joe reduced to a howling, pleading mess was far more dominant, however. This was the part of Scarecrow that placed the scalpel, blade slick and wet with blood, on the table and then went back to inflict more torment.

"Most impressive. Though I hate to give you any praise at all, I am continually surprised by your endurance. You are one resilient specimen. I have no doubt you'll come to regret it later when you're too stubborn to pass out or die decently, but know that I find you fascinating."

Having spoken all the nice words he was physically capable of, the Scarecrow moved on to the second round of punishment. The bite had been squared away. The woman's escape attempt had not. The retribution for that act would be much more severe.

* * *

I know the next chapter will take at least a week because I'm going to Boston for three days and school is shaping up to be a bitch for the days I'm home.

A box jellyfish sting can kill a human in three minutes.

Kim Jong Il is the leader of North Korea, in case anyone isn't familiar.


	12. Russian Bear

Thanks for all the reviews!

Here it is, the moment you've all been waiting for!

* * *

Whatever diabolical torture the Scarecrow was cooking up apparently could be performed while he was seated. He dragged his chair—an office chair with wheels would have been so much easier to tote but it didn't fit the ambience—and positioned it just in front of Joe. The cabbie heard the chair scraping along the bare floor, and shivered. He had no idea what the Scarecrow was planning, but any plan had to be detrimental to his health.

Crane, as nearly any person he'd ever met or interacted with could tell you, was not a fan of human contact. He had hated being hugged at work by obscenely friendly coworkers, he disliked shaking hands, and he considered most of the human species as little more than boring habitats for bacteria. Not surprisingly, he wasn't particularly happy to see how close Scarecrow had pulled the chair. He wasn't going to protest because he did enjoy seeing the cabbie miserable, and what Scarecrow had in mind was masterful. He just wished all of Scarecrow's truly brilliant plans didn't involve getting blood on his hands.

Willfully ignorant of Crane's qualms, Scarecrow sat down. He was so close to Joe their knees were only scant inches apart. Between the two of them, torturer and tormented, personal space had no meaning

"You're not going to bite anymore, are you? I would sincerely hope not because if you ever try anything like that again, it isn't going to be your hand and it isn't going to be a scalpel," the Scarecrow warned.

Joe made no attempt to answer, nor did he bare his teeth and try to emulate Mike Tyson. He sat slumped in his chair, trying desperately to pool and conserve whatever energy he had left. His maimed hand continued to bleed and throb and sap his strength. It was difficult if not impossible to stay resolute when your mind played cruel tricks on you and it felt like your hand had been offered up as barracuda bait.

"I believe you have learned your lesson. However, your friend hasn't. Do you know what she tried to do?"

Joe knew well enough. His hearing wasn't as badly warped by the toxin as his eyesight and sense of touch were: the auditory hallucinations were relatively rare compared to the blinding light he saw and the awful sensations the Scarecrow's touch caused. He'd heard the 911 operator and the resulting duel for the phone. He knew she'd done everything in her power to save them. He was thankful for the effort, no matter how fruitless it likely was or how badly he was going to pay for it. At least she'd had the guts to try and had given him a reason, albeit an almost assuredly hollow one, to hope for rescue.

"I think you do know but you feel like being taciturn. I understand why you won't answer. Finally, you've realized that your back it to the wall. It's upsetting, isn't it, to realize you're helpless? You have no control over your life or your death. You're reduced to nothing but an expendable lab rat and you're terrified, aren't you?"

The cabbie neither confirmed nor denied. Scarecrow frowned. This constant refusal to even acknowledge him was getting old. It was time to make Joe sing like the wounded bird he was.

The Scarecrow's hand closed over Joe's bloody one. In a snap, the cabbie went from slouched to ramrod straight, every muscle tensed. Just the weight pressing down on the 32 cuts that marred his hand was painful enough; the texture of the alien hand touching broken skin was nearly enough to make him sick.

As though he was squeezing a stress ball, the Scarecrow tightened his grip on Joe's hand. The cabbie did the only thing his panic-stricken brain could instruct his body to do: he fought back. It wasn't a clearly formulated attack strategy—Joe was in no shape mentally or physically to take inspiration from Jet Li—but rather a cornered-animal desperate flailing.

Joe managed to reclaim his injured hand and struck out blindly with its unhurt twin. The short handcuff chain and the duct tape kept him from putting any sort of momentum behind his blows. His only advantage seemed to be pure dumb luck. One weak punch struck the Scarecrow's bitten hand and he hissed as the injury was aggravated.

"Keep your hands off of me! Goddamn it, don't touch me," Joe said. His voice was ragged and desperate and he was too frightened and disgusted to be ashamed of it.

"No, I'm afraid this is going to be a very _hands-on_ experiment for the foreseeable future," the Scarecrow replied.

On the subject of hands, he looked down at the bandages that crisscrossed a sizeable chunk of the aforementioned appendage. Joe's random punch hadn't been strong, but it had been well-placed. The pain from the bite wound had finally been quieting down; now it was flaring like a fire given fresh fuel. The Scarecrow certainly wasn't going to let his guinea pig get away with striking him.

Joe kept whaling on empty air for a few more moments before realizing he wasn't doing anything but flinging droplets of blood all over the place. He stopped and lowered his hands, one of which was streaked with an alarming amount of red. His hands settled in his lap but were far from still. Tremors ran through them both, especially assaulting the stabbed hand; it trembled like a cold puppy.

Warier of randomly flapping limbs and careful to keep his injured hand well out of the way, Scarecrow made a second attempt at grabbing Joe. Since the cabbie's hands were lying in his lap, they weren't exactly difficult targets. The Scarecrow easily recaptured the hand he'd had a minute ago. This time, he instantly applied squeezing pressure, hoping to subvert any potential violence from the cabbie. It would be quite difficult for him to fight back if he was overwhelmed with pain.

"We are going to have a conversation, a little patient/doctor tête-à-tête," Scarecrow said. "I will ask you questions and you will answer them to the best of your ability. Refuse to answer, and your life becomes even more unbearable. Do you understand?"

There were no answers forthcoming. Joe was hardly in any condition to answer a questionnaire: his hand felt as though it was composed of jagged broken glass instead of flesh and bone and the fear toxin was screening private horror movies in his mind. Whenever he tried to focus on anything but the pain in his hand, awful images played. When he tried to focus on something aside from nightmares in his head, his hand demanded attention. There was simply no escape from the circle.

Scarecrow had no sympathy for Joe's position. He was, in fact, overjoyed to see the cabbie knocked off his high horse. Now it would only be a matter of grinding him down farther into the dust.

"You'll be contributing to the great body of scientific knowledge. For once in your menial existence, you'll actually be of some use. You should be eager to help my research," the Scarecrow said.

Somehow, despite the great honor of being tied to a chair and stabbed by a lunatic in a burlap sack, Joe couldn't find it in his heart to appreciate the grandness of the Scarecrow's work. Maybe he was too concerned with trifles like being alive and remaining sane to recognize the grandeur of Crane's experiments. A man with a stronger regard for the greater good would probably have understood.

"Still don't have anything to say? We can't have that. I want to know what you're seeing. Even with your eyes closed, I know everything isn't shut out," the Scarecrow said.

The only sound was Joe's sharp, rapid breathing. One exceptionally harsh squeeze on the cabbie's hand changed that a little. He bit his lip, his next breath hissing between his teeth.

"Tell me or I'll start breaking fingers."

"Russian dancing bear."

He couldn't be serious. But how did he still have the capacity for sarcasm? None of the Arkham patients or the homeless people the Scarecrow had experimented on had been able to give him bullshit answers after the second dose. Not one of them. Most had been able to articulate their hallucinations between whimpers and cries, but not a sole, solitary, singular one had matched the cabbie's dedication to stupidity.

"A Russian dancing bear? That's what you're seeing?"

Maybe he wasn't lying. Maybe in his childhood, a circus he'd seen had featured a performing bear. Maybe the bear had mauled its trainer while the audience watched in numb horror. That could scar a young psyche.

"Tell me about this bear. Why are you afraid of it?"

Like a malfunctioning computer, Joe froze up. He couldn't talk about the bear because there _was no bear_. He couldn't reveal what he was actually seeing—his fears were too deadly a weapon to give the enemy—and the ridiculous bear ruse had been his only hope. It had taken every last iota of control he had left over his poisoned brain to concoct the lie, and he simply could do no more.

When Joe failed to come up with adjectives or a back story, Scarecrow knew he'd been lied to. He was not pleased.

The snap was brief and unremarkable, no louder than the crack of a breaking twig. The scream that followed carried a much greater impact.

It was too much. Danielle felt hot tears on her cheeks and swiped at them furiously. What right did she have to cry? She wasn't the one bleeding or having her fingers broken. She was the one responsible for all of this.

For _all_ of it. The realization crushed her like a falling piano. All of it could be traced back to her. If she hadn't told Joe to speed, he never would have spooked the Scarecrow's horse. If she hadn't been so terrified of the lunatic, Joe wouldn't have had to sacrifice himself for her. If she'd only been braver or less concerned with saving her own skin, Joe wouldn't be in the position he was in now. She had a stock in every drop of blood he shed and every ragged breath he took.

The tears fell harder and each one was scalding and bitter. She tried to keep them silent and secret but it was like an emotional dam breaking. Unable to stop crying, she hid her face in her hands.

Scarecrow couldn't help but notice Danielle's distress. He smiled in satisfaction. She was certainly paying for her escape attempt. Her punishment was quieter, cleaner, but in its own way more insidious. Guilt, self-loathing, they were as good as if not better weapons than scalpels and bullets.

"Dislocation of the proximal interphalangeal joint. It hurts, doesn't it? Answer or I'll move on to your index finger."

"Yes! Yes, it hurts."

"That wasn't so hard, was it? Let's move on to another question."

Even as Scarecrow talked to Joe, his eyes stayed on Danielle. She was soft, a bleeding heart. Gotham devoured people like her with all the mercy of a threshing machine. The second she'd set foot on the dirty streets, she'd never really stood a chance. Her destruction was as certain as death and taxes. Especially death.

Sure his female victim would prove easy to snap, Scarecrow turned his full attention back to the evening's main entertainment. The cabbie was panting like an overheated dog. His head was tilted back and his salt-and-pepper hair was pasted to his forehead by sweat. Large portions of his face, shirt, pants, and hands were bloody. He was, all in all, a sorry sight.

Scarecrow knew just how to make him even sorrier. He'd purposely attacked Joe's body, and now that the cabbie was vulnerable, it was time to go for his mind. As Crane knew well enough, there was nothing like talking about childhood to mentally traumatize someone.

"Why don't you tell me about your grandmother? Pull up a picture of her, a vivid memory. Tell me about the influence she had on you as a boy."

"Oh, no, no, no. I won't-"

But he couldn't help it. He'd hardly heard the Scarecrow's words and the memories came against his will. It was like being tossed into a time machine and being sent back to a bad dream he'd escaped years ago. It was like digging a tunnel to escape from prison, only to be discovered with scant feet separating him from freedom. It was like climbing out of hell and, just as the stink of sulfur was fading, the ground collapsed and he was heaved back into the fire.

"Where are you? Describe the situation."

"The crazy bitch is dead. She'd been dead for 21 years. She is _not_ real. Goddamn it, she's not."

"The past never leaves us. It's like a corpse we've chained ourselves to. It follows us, growing less appealing by the day," Scarecrow said.

"Get back in the hole they put you in! I saw them bury you. You were dressed in that pink dress that gave you a hippo ass."

"She's alive and I doubt if she'd be pleased to hear about her 'hippo ass'."

Joe shook his head violently. "She's dead, and none of this shit is real. I know it isn't. It's like being high, but bad."

"Prove it to yourself. Open your eyes and tell me that _I'm_ nothing but a hallucination," Scarecrow said.

It would be like looking under the bed to prove there was no boogeyman under there. Joe had done it as a kid, and he'd do it again as an adult. Trying to ignore the scowling face of his long-dead grandmother that prowled around in his head, Joe opened his eyes.

He took one look at Scarecrow and promptly wished he was blind.

* * *

That was the only way I could think of to get the bear in. If it doesn't please you, I cry your pardon.


	13. Bugs

Thanks for the reviews! I send you virtual hugs to envelop you in love. Or if that's too creepy, you can just have my gratitude.

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Thomas Schiff had to be the only person living in North America who had never owned a cell phone. He'd seen them by the millions in Gotham, of course, and the Joker had let him play with the phones that would later be used to trigger detonations, but he'd never had a cell phone of his own. Because of his deprivation, it was no wonder the first thing Schiff did upon returning to his room was power on Danielle's phone.

The phone greeted him with a chime. Thomas began to play with the cell's menu icons, scrolling through different applications for games, ring tones, and text messaging. Out of curiosity, he opened Danielle's contact list and perused it. The list contained dozens upon dozens of phone numbers. She probably had information for half of Seattle stored on her phone.

Mom. Dad. Bob. Golden Panda Chinese Takeout. Meghan. Donny. Grandma Sophia.

A lot of people were going to miss her. Schiff suddenly felt very uncomfortable looking through Danielle's friends, family, and favorite restaurants. It was like reading a condensed diary. He hastily exited the address book and decided to see what games and music the phone held. That would take his mind off the well-padded contact list.

While Schiff toyed with Danielle's phone, Scarecrow played with something that was both more entertaining and didn't require a monthly subscription: Joe's mind. The cabbie was finally fully revealing his fear and the Scarecrow couldn't have been happier.

"Weren't you just saying it was all a hallucination? You aren't scared of what isn't real, are you?"

Joe had no idea what he had been talking about: it could have been the applications of deconstructive literary criticism applied to the modern novel for all he knew. His mind had no room for something as coherent as a thought. There was no room for anything except a bloc of blinding, white horror. Even his ranting Sicilian grandmother had been given the boot.

Under the influence of the more diluted first dose of toxin, the Scarecrow's mask had been sickening. This time, more than just the mask had been transformed. The suit—which had been remarkably clean considering he'd gone horseback riding in it—was now torn and tattered like clothing more befitting a scarecrow. Rotting straw poked out of rends in the fabric. Earwigs, pillbugs and other arthropods that preferred the dark and the damp skittered among the cloth and the straw.

The Scarecrow released Joe's hand and it fell lifelessly to his lap. Mutilating that hand had been delightfully entertaining, but Scarecrow had other plans and Crane was beginning to get antsy over the nonconsensual male-to-male hand-holding.

Scarecrow leaned in, bringing his burlap face closer to Joe. Due to the height disparity between them, the Scarecrow was forced to rise from his seat if he was to stay even with the cabbie's eye level. He most certainly did want to maintain unblinking eye contact at this point. The fear reflected in Joe's eyes was delicious.

There was no reservoir of dignity deep enough to keep Joe from panicking as the Scarecrow drew closer. Seeing him at a distance of three feet was unbearable. Having him inches away, with all details inescapable, would be nearly mind-shattering.

Despite his acute fear and his great desire to do so, Joe couldn't close his eyes or turn his head. As the gap between him and his tormentor closed, the cabbie was forced to watch. It was almost as though he was hypnotized.

There was only a foot of space separating them when Scarecrow decided he was close enough. Crane made the comment that they were in optimal head-butting distance if the cabbie regained enough of his wits to lash out, but Scarecrow brushed it off. He was sure—at least sure enough to risk a cracked skull—that Joe was well past physically fighting back and wouldn't be getting the ability back any time soon.

"Incredible, isn't it? A little chemical engineering, and even someone as bullheaded as you can be overcome with fear," the Scarecrow mused.

Joe abruptly started shivering. It had nothing to do with the temperature of the room and everything to do with Scarecrow's mouth. Or rather, the slit in the burlap that opened to reveal a black hole no doubt brimming with every creeping, crawling long-legged beastie to ever haunt Man's imagination. Just looking into that impossible void of a mouth made Joe feel like his soul was in danger of being stolen.

"You're staring and it's rude," the Scarecrow said.

"Holy God, what's wrong with your _mouth_?" His voice was higher than usual, nearing hysteric. Not once in his life had Joe been scared into hysteria. It looked like there was a first time for everything.

The burlap mask, when seen in clarity, had no mouth, just a line of stitching: putting any more holes in your toxic gas filter than was necessary was just asking for trouble. Despite this reality, an overwhelming majority of Scarecrow's victims saw all manner of awful things slithering from the mask's nonexistent mouth. Small creatures such as spiders and maggots seemed to be the most common, though one Arkham patient had seen a whole cat somehow squeeze through.

"What, exactly, are you talking about? Have I got something in my teeth?" the Scarecrow asked, teasing.

"Jesus!"

"Somehow I doubt I've got Jesus stuck in my teeth. I'd think I'd be aware of it if I did."

"Stop talking!"

"You're not turning this into a one-sided conversation. I told you this would be a discussion between the two of us, not a monologue of you ranting. Try to articulate what you're seeing."

The cabbie moaned. Every time the Scarecrow opened his mouth, it was undiluted horror. Joe was sure that he'd lose whatever tenuous grip he had on his sanity if the Scarecrow talked for too long. The words were irrelevant: he could have read the script of Nixon's resignation speech and Joe would have still felt his mind rebelling against the sight.

Even on his best days, Joe wasn't exactly Walt Whitman. Most of his favorite adjectives were swear words. He would have had trouble on his most literary day explaining what he was seeing without resorting to phrases that used 'shit' as all possible parts of speech. Since he was more terrified than he'd been at any time in his nearly four decades of life, expecting clarity was like expecting a female Pope.

"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?"

Something that was decidedly _not_ a tongue moved in the darkness of Scarecrow's mouth. A newscast Joe had seen over a year ago and had entirely forgotten about flashed to the forefront of his brain, excavated like a fossil from his unconscious memory. The report had been about a parasitic louse that attacked fish, ate their tongues, and took up residence where the tongue used to be. Though the parasite was supposedly not interested in humans, Scarecrow wasn't a human, was he? Not by any definition the cabbie had ever heard. An enormous, tongue-munching, pale-white bug would doubtlessly be right at home with the rest of the foul stuffing.

"Have you suddenly gone mute? I couldn't get you to shut your prattling trap, and now you've got nothing to say? Why the change?"

Yes, that definitely looked like a parasitic sea creature. Once the suggestion was planted, Joe couldn't remove it. The more he stared at the Scarecrow, the more he came to see the aquatic horror wriggling in the dark.

"Perhaps I'm leaving you speechless. I'm well aware that-"

Joe's hands suddenly scrambled to his face and clamped over his mouth. Scarecrow threw himself backwards, nearly toppling out of his chair. He was sure the cabbie's violent reaction signaled impending vomit and he had no intention of being in range when it happened.

Most of his past test subjects had responded to their fear by screaming and sobbing. However, a choice few did more than just wail: they also tossed their cookies. The Scarecrow had learned to be well out of the splash zone when dealing with experiments with tempestuous stomachs.

Mercifully, Joe did not heave up his mostly digested lunch. He'd covered his mouth to hold back a scream, not a liquefied chicken sandwich. His quick hands stymied the sound, turning a yell into a muffle.

It took the Scarecrow a few moments to realize the cabbie wasn't going to be sick. Crane urged caution (as though he ever did anything else) just in case. Getting vomit on the suit would be even worse than staining it with blood; blood didn't stink to high heaven.

With the eye contact broken, Joe found himself regaining at least enough control over his body to close his eyes. The darkness was beautiful compared to the Scarecrow's mask. Though his heart still thudded in his chest like Thor's hammer and terror flowed through him like a fluid, at least he was blind to the Scarecrow's face.

Damn it. Scarecrow growled in frustration. The cabbie wouldn't be tricked into opening his eyes again. Once bitten, twice shy, and Joe had been bitten hard enough to leave serious scars. It looked like the fun was over, at least until the Scarecrow could come up with a new scheme to make Joe's life a trial by ordeal.

Instead of weighing his options and moving on to something sadistic and new, Scarecrow brooded. He felt like he'd been robbed of a golden opportunity. He wasn't done basking in the pure, unadulterated fear yet! Finally, the cabbie had been good for something and he wasn't ready to give that up.

"I am not done with you, yet. If you won't keep your eyes open, I'll staple them open. Let's see how much you enjoy being unable to blink!"

Crane sighed with exasperation. As much as he loved and appreciated Scarecrow for all he did, sometimes he was just a tad bit difficult to share a body with. When he went off on a senseless tangent involving staplers, that was definitely one of those times.

Scarecrow meant to fetch the stapler post haste. He rose from his chair and would have marched from the room if Crane hadn't reminded him that they no longer owned a stapler. Suddenly Scarecrow remembered the fate that had befallen the stapler. It filled him with an even greater desire to damage Joe's eyelids.

Up until last week, they'd still had a stapler Crane had pilfered from Arkham. Considering it wasn't particularly uncommon for a guard or doctor to use the pharmacy as his private stash of happy pills, a stapler wasn't going to be missed. Especially not when Arkham went out of its way to buy the cheapest office equipment imaginable. The stapler, like so many of its kind, decided to stop doing its job correctly. It jammed, mangled the staples, and refused to bind more than three sheets of paper together. Instead of giving Crane the opportunity to fix it, Scarecrow cursed at it and threw it out the window. It was probably still lying in the alley like a dead stray.

So there would be no eyelid stapling tonight. Scarecrow muttered under his breath, using words Crane wouldn't use if a rabid animal was chewing his foot off. He had _really_ been set on seeing how the cabbie reacted when his eyes were permanently secured open.

"Alright, I'm not going to get the stapler. I've got something else in mind. If I can't see your fear shine in your eyes—you've got dull eyes like a sloth, just so you know—I can enjoy it through another sense," Scarecrow said.

Joe didn't like where this was going. What sense did the freak intend to use? Oh God, if it was taste or smell Joe was going to try to give himself a heart attack so he died. He was not, under any circumstance, going to be sniffed by a burlap-clad nightmare. And could it even taste, having a sea bug for a tongue?

"I want to hear you scream and I intend to get what I want. You were able to stop yourself last time, but I've got some wonderful ideas. Why don't we get started? You must be as eager as I am," Scarecrow said.

He took his seat, the anger over the foiled stapler fading. This plan would be more enjoyable and more likely to work. The logistics of positioning a poorly assembled asylum stapler in just the right spot to successfully secure a thin flap of skin were nearly unworkable, anyway.

"The toxin attacking your mind now is more than enough to make your life a living hell. However, it doesn't appear quite strong enough to make you truly give yourself over to your terror. The solution, I believe, is obvious."

Joe whimpered. Not again. Not yet.

"Look on the bright side. Only two more doses, and you will be dead. You'll doubtlessly be welcoming it, so let's not delay."

Someone, however, obviously did intend to delay. There was a burst of desperate pounding on the door. The Scarecrow twisted around in his chair to face the door. Danielle raised her head from her hands and peered with curiosity and apprehension. She doubted if the postman had come to give the Scarecrow a singing telegram.

"Doctor Crane! Doctor Crane!"

"He's dead. I'm going to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until he turns blue," Scarecrow said.

The knocking grew more furious until it sounded like Schiff was going to try to hammer through the door. The Scarecrow finally told him to stop being an ass and just come in.

Thomas burst into the room and exclaimed, "Doctor Crane, there's a problem! Bad problem, I screwed up, it's bad, don't kill me."

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Parasitic tongue-eating sea louse? Totally real and perhaps the single most horrible thing in the ocean. Google it and be afraid.


	14. OMG Shoes

Thanks so much to the reviewers! You are all awesome incarnate.

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If left to the whims of his temper, Scarecrow would have doubtlessly choked the life from Thomas Schiff and then kicked the body a few times for good measure. Luckily for the schizophrenic, Crane wanted to at least hear an explanation. He usurped control from Scarecrow, sending him off to snarl and swear.

"Tell me what you did," Crane said.

Thomas collapsed onto the floor and cowered like a beaten dog. If he was offering an explanation, it was impossible to make out between the random cries and whimpering. Crane rolled his eyes. He did not have time for this nonsense.

"Thomas, you have five seconds to untangle your tongue or I'm letting Scarecrow kill you."

"I-I...phone...I answered," Schiff muttered.

It was then that Crane spotted Danielle's phone clutched in the terrified man's hand. Oh, shit. What had Thomas done?

The schizophrenic found himself pulled off the floor and slammed into the wall. Crane had allowed Scarecrow to return. Scarecrow was insanely pissed.

"You're a paranoid schizophrenic! You're supposed to be worried the government is trying to give you brain cancer through cell phones! You're supposed to be afraid the CIA is tracking you! You aren't supposed to turn them on and play with them! Why aren't you even good at being paranoid?" Scarecrow shouted.

Shaken like a rat in a terrier's mouth, Schiff gibbered in a language that bore no semblance to English or anything else spoken on Earth. The gibberish only served to make Scarecrow angrier. He stopped shaking his helpless victim and pinned him against the wall.

"I should kill you right here and now. Give me the phone so I can see exactly what you did and whether you go quickly or slowly," Scarecrow said.

"P-p-please, Doctor Crane-"

"Crane? There is no Crane. Only Scarecrow!"

At that point, Schiff became convinced his life was over. It had been neither particularly long nor pleasant, but he was not looking forward to being murdered. Especially not by Scarecrow, who would no doubt make sure Thomas suffered unspeakable terrors before he expired.

The phone was snatched from his hand. Schiff cringed and tried to meld with the wall. Once Scarecrow saw what he'd done, he was dead meat. He was road-kill. He was mincemeat. He was ground beef. He was any and all dead animal analogies he had ever heard.

It was a bit difficult to work the phone one-handed, especially when that hand was bandaged. Crane was at least computer literate and tech-savvy enough to operate a mobile device—it was impossible to manage as a doctor without e-mail and a cell phone—so he was able to master the phone despite his disability. He noted well over a dozen missed calls, all from the same number, and then a few text messages. Most of the messages were unread. The most recent, received only minutes ago, had not only been opened; it had been replied to.

"Did you answer this text message?" Scarecrow hissed. He already knew the answer. The Cingular fairy hadn't come down and sent a reply with the wave of a magic wand.

Schiff was stammering and looked as though he would start sobbing at any moment. Scarecrow was in no mood for unintelligible noises. He glared at the schizophrenic, who immediately turned down the volume.

Getting straight, coherent answers out of Schiff was harder than driving a car while blindfolded. Scarecrow gave up all hope and decided to just check with the phone. He pulled up the list of messages and read the one Schiff had been stupid enough to answer.

The message was apparently from the woman's grandmother, since the sender was identified as "Grandma Sophia". Scarecrow was mildly impressed that anyone from Grandma Sophia's generation had mastered the fine art of texting. The message was a bit wordy and did lack any absurd abbreviations, but it was pleasant not to have to riddle out what a string of seemingly random letters was supposed to mean. There was nary an LOL or an OMG to be had and Scarecrow was thankful.

"Danielle, when you get this message, please call me. I hope you haven't been kidnapped by the Mafia. I think I should call the police," Scarecrow read.

To this, Schiff had replied, "No, she was by Scarecrow."

"Slowly it is, then," Scarecrow said.

He dropped the phone and punted it across the room. It skidded across the floor like a hockey puck and struck the far wall with a sharp crack. Something, either the screen or the plastic body of the phone, did not survive the impact.

"I didn't even mean to do it! Scarecrow, I didn't! I swear-"

Thomas' desperate words were cut off when the Scarecrow's hands tightened around his throat. Schiff squawked once like a parrot and then began to make a horrible, gasping sound.

"Believe it or not, I do regret it. I enjoyed your company, at least occasionally. However, your simple inability to not screw up has finally become too much to bear," Scarecrow said.

He watched dispassionately as the schizophrenic tried to pry the hands away from his throat. Scarecrow would consider letting go once Schiff passed out—probably in two minutes or so—but for right now he was holding tight. This would either be the death of the scatter-brained man, or the greatest and most unforgettable lesson of his life. Scarecrow hadn't decided yet.

The world was spinning. Schiff's eyes were losing his focus, his lungs felt barren and shriveled, and he was dizzy. His knees went weak and he suddenly found himself on the floor.

On the floor and, incredibly, able to breathe again. Thomas drew in a deep breath, the air burning his throat with the most pleasant pain of his life. Doctor Crane must have overridden Scarecrow's plan to kill. Schiff looked up, only to find the Scarecrow's back to him.

Something had struck him on the back of the head. He'd been holding tight, watching Thomas' face as he succumbed to hypoxia, and then something had hit him. Finding whatever had hit him seemed more pressing than strangling a flunky, so he'd dropped Schiff and began the search.

The object turned out to be a shoe. A sneaker devoid of any laces, to be precise. Schiff's sneaker devoid of laces to be as precise as possible.

"He did have a shoe off," Scarecrow muttered to himself.

The mystery of what had hit him was solved. The mystery of who had been the pitcher was up next. The suspect list was short.

It wasn't the cabbie; as much as the Scarecrow would have enjoyed laying the blame on him, he could never have reached the shoe, wherever it had been, because of the duct tape. Unless Thomas had developed telekinetic powers, he could not have thrown it. The Invisible Man had, in all likelihood, not broken in just to throw around some footwear. By brilliant deduction, Crane concluded the culprit had to be Danielle.

"May I ask why you hit me in the head with a sneaker?" Scarecrow said.

Danielle, guilty as charged, wondered if playing dead like a frightened possum would save her. She supposed not. The Scarecrow was a doctor and would doubtlessly be able to distinguish real death from poorly acted death.

If she couldn't fake her way out of being slaughtered like a cow, maybe she could talk her way out of an incredibly painful demise. Or maybe she'd just end up sticking her foot in her mouth, and choking on it.

"I had to," Danielle said.

"You had to? Why do I find it doubtful that some undeniable force compelled you to throw that shoe?"

"I mean, he's crazy and you can't blame crazy people for what they do. You had no right-"

Scarecrow glared at her and the rest of the sentence atrophied and fell off. He was obviously not responding well to being told his business. Danielle had a sinking feeling she'd done nothing of use for either her or the schizophrenic except maybe dug both of their graves.

Much to Danielle's surprise, the Scarecrow didn't threaten her with bodily harm. Instead, he nodded in agreement.

"You're absolutely right. He's not legally in his right mind and I can hardly blame him for his transgressions. I won't kill him; instead, I'll give him a chance to redeem himself."

Schiff looked up with cautious optimism. He wanted to believe that Doctor Crane had interceded on his behalf. However, he knew Scarecrow was as clever as he was cruel. Thomas was wary about what exactly he'd have to do to earn redemption.

"Since you have likely alerted the police to my location, you can lead them off the trail. Cell phones can be tracked when they are on, Thomas. So you'll have to take the phone and go somewhere else," Scarecrow explained.

"But Doctor Crane-"

"Scarecrow."

"But Scarecrow, I don't know where to go," Schiff said.

"Frankly, I don't care if you fall in the river and float out to the Atlantic. Get the phone and get out of here before I lose my respect for the insanity defense," the Scarecrow replied.

"But I-"

"You really should be going before I get any angrier with you."

"But what if-"

"You have five seconds to pick up that phone before I tie you to a chair and make you spend the next six hours screaming yourself hoarse."

Schiff, moving with the speed of a roadrunner, grabbed the phone and hurried from the room. If the Scarecrow wanted him gone, he was gone. Though he had no idea where he was going to go or what he was going to do if the police found him, an uncertain future was infinitely better than a future that involved fear toxin.

"He forgot his shoe. It should be interesting to see how much imbedded broken glass he brings home with him. If, that is, he returns home," Scarecrow said.

With Thomas out of the way and off catching tetanus or slicing his unprotected foot to ribbons, Scarecrow turned his attention back to Danielle. By whacking him with the sneaker, she'd done one thing: she'd made him see exactly who was ultimately responsible. She was. Schiff, as she'd pointed out, had been declared insane in a court of law (with the testimony of a certain Doctor Crane) and it wasn't right to blame him. The woman, it had been her phone. If she hadn't been stupid enough to call 911, Thomas would have never been tempted to play with the phone and would never have gotten himself into trouble.

She really was more trouble than she was worth. At least the cabbie was valuable; Scarecrow hadn't been so eager to break someone's mind since his first encounter with the flying rat of the night. The woman and her banal common phobias and her phone calls and her shoe-throwing…

Maybe she'd be of more use dead. Scarecrow considered it. Alive, she caused trouble. Dead, at least she'd behave. The dead didn't try to escape or throw shoes like some angry Iraqi protesting the US presence in his country. If she was in her violent, shrieking death throes courtesy of a fatal concentrated dose of fear toxin at least she'd prove to be entertaining while she lasted.

No. As pleasant as the screams produced by lethal quantities of toxin were, he wasn't ready to dispose of either Danielle or Joe just yet. They had a sort of chemistry Scarecrow wanted to explore. He rarely if ever got hold of two test subjects at the same time. Watching them interact could open up a whole new field of research. That would make Crane so happy, the little scientist that he was.

The Scarecrow turned to Danielle and smiled at her. Without poison to contort her perceptions, the mask remained expressionless. She had no idea of the cruel grin hiding behind the burlap.

"You know, Danielle, I've just been engaging in a mental debate. Do you want to know what I was debating?"

It wasn't boxers or briefs, that was for sure. Danielle couldn't begin to fathom what weird conversations the Scarecrow had with himself. To avoid offending him with a stupid answer, she kept her mouth shut and waited for him to take the hint.

"You aren't any fun at all. I was debating whether or not I should kill you for your ever-lengthening list of mistakes. The case was strong against you; that phone of yours is a ruinous device. Despite all the evidence and my own desires, I decided to let you live. And do you know why?"

Danielle shook her head. She had no idea; she had fully expected him to level her with a death sentence.

"Because of the deal I made with your dear cab driver. As much as I may want to fill your lungs with poison gas and watch you convulse, it would break our agreement. He takes it all before you take any. Why don't you thank him for his noble gesture?" Scarecrow said.

She'd managed to stop crying long enough to clear her vision and save Schiff's undeserving hide. Now the tears threatened again. Danielle very much did want to thank Joe but a plain "hey, thanks for sacrificing your sanity and life for me" seemed damned hollow. There were just no words sufficient for what she really wanted to say.

Bereft of words, Danielle could only think of one thing to do. She cautiously rose from her chair, expecting Scarecrow to snap at her at any moment. He didn't, but only watched with mild curiosity.

Danielle inched her way towards Joe, her footsteps slow and halting. Every step she took closer to Joe, the more she expected Scarecrow to either attack or demand she return to her seat. When she arrived in front of the cabbie without sustaining so much as a threat, she was amazed.

"Joe, can you hear me?" Danielle asked.

He nodded his head. "Yeah."

"Thank you."

Joe nodded against. He wanted to respond with something better, but his throat chose a very awkward moment to close up on him. Damn, he was getting too old to be choking on his emotions.

"Can I…This might sound weird…Joe, can I hug you?"

Nobody had hugged him since his wife split for the lovely whatever the shit was lovely in Akron. That was a long time to go without embraces. It would feel very nice to get an authentic hug before he died.

Like a bobblehead doll, Joe nodded again. He didn't trust himself to make words just then.

Hugging in handcuffs took some maneuvering, as Danielle found out. She couldn't just wrap her arms around his middle and squeeze. The only way to get her arms around Joe was to slip them over his head like a hoop and slide them down as far as they would go. He had broad shoulders and the duct tape made giving a proper hug impossible.

"I'm sorry, Joe. I'm so sorry," Danielle whispered, leaning in so their conversation could be private.

"Don't worry. You're getting out of here," Joe said. He finally found the words, just when they really mattered.

Danielle believed him with all her heart. Scarecrow, had he been privy to their whispers, would have been a bit more skeptical.

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Well, no obscenely gross creatures of the deep this chapter. Maybe next time!


	15. A Little More Conversation

Thanks to the reviewers! You bring me much joy.

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It was dark and it smelled like an overflowing dumpster and the ground was littered with all sorts of garbage and he'd heard the moans of two people having sex in an alley and a drunk had yelled at him and he was walking funny because he only had one shoe and everything was awful and he hated it.

Schiff, alone and miserable, plodded the alleys and pitted streets of the Narrows. It was like walking through one big, inhabited dump site where not everyone had learned toilets were for pissing in but trash cans were not. He wished he had the foggiest idea of what to ultimately do with the phone, but no plans formed in his head. The only thing he could do was walk farther and farther from his nice, warm room and his TV and his shoe.

"I should give it to a hobo. That's what I should do. Let someone else have it. A hobo. I need a hobo," Schiff said to himself.

There was no shortage of hobos in the Narrows. It didn't take Schiff long to find one sprawled out beside a dumpster, his jacket crumpled up into a makeshift pillow. The schizophrenic inched closer to the sleeping body. It didn't stir. That was just perfect. If he could get rid of the phone without witnesses, life would be positively copacetic.

Schiff crouched down and removed the phone from his pocket. As silently as possible, he placed the phone on the ground, inches from the hobo. There was no way the homeless man would fail to notice his gift when he woke up.

Just as the plastic casing of the phone touched the cracked asphalt of the alley floor, the hobo sprung to life like a vampire rising from its coffin at sunset. He grabbed Schiff's wrist and propelled him into the brick wall that composed the side of the alley. Thomas yelped as his face met unforgiving stone. Tonight was just his night for being rudely and forcefully slammed into hard things.

Immobilized against the wall, his arm twisted behind him in ways the shoulder joint was never meant to move, Thomas was sure his night simply could not get any worse. That assumption changed rather quickly when he felt the wickedly sharp knife at his throat.

Blocks away and oblivious to the danger he'd put his schizophrenic guinea pig in, Scarecrow was growing bored. Displays of any emotion except fear didn't interest him and outpourings of human compassion made him want to stomp plump and fluffy baby animals. If not for the higher purpose he planned to twist his two prisoners' empathy for each other towards, he would have broken up the hug before it ever had a chance to happen. Since the loving and the feelings were just revolting means to an end, Scarecrow stood back in silence.

"If I'm getting out, you are, too," Danielle said.

It would have been nice to assure her, to promise that he was going to be right next to her the whole time. Joe nearly offered this hope he knew to be false but checked himself at the last second. He might withhold a little—not reveal the whole truth because the whole truth was ugly—but he wasn't going to bullshit her, either. He'd tell Danielle enough to get her out and she could hate him for not being straight with her once she was safely in her grandmother's arms.

"I'll try my best but…," Joe trailed off, letting the silence finish his sentence.

"No! That isn't good enough! We both have to get out. We have to," Danielle said.

She'd seen too many movies with absurdly happy endings; hell, everyone had. People were trained to believe that all the hostages were always rescued, the hero found a blonde, busty lover or solved his marital problems by saving his wife and everyone lived happily ever after. Nobody went to movies where the terrorists shot all their prisoners, the SWAT team got leveled, and the hero was tortured to death in a particularly devious manner because that shit was depressing. Joe didn't like the idea any more than anyone else. He just accepted it more than the average man. If nothing else, Joe the Cabbie was a realist. He knew the price of gas was going up, he knew his divorce was settled, and he knew the last thing he saw before the lights went out for good would be the Scarecrow's ungodly face laughing at him.

He'd tried to accept that as much as possible. One thing, though, he simply could not and would not accept was Danielle suffering the same fate. He was basically a middle-aged loner living in an apartment without so much as a gerbil to keep him company. She had friends and family and Grandma Sophia; her death would leave a gaping hole in the lives of so many people. Joe's boss and a few other drivers might miss him. His ex-wife would probably get a little teary-eyed, but Ohio was treating her well. She'd get over it.

"It's gotta be," Joe replied.

"Bullshit!" Danielle exclaimed, denial and anger making her louder and harsher than she intended to be.

There was no doubt in her mind that the Scarecrow had heard her and was now probably keenly listening. Well, screw him. She'd be more careful and unless he stuck his horrible burlap face between her and Joe, he wasn't going to learn anything.

"Joe, we're in this together to the end. One way or another."

He wished his head was clearer. When the Scarecrow wasn't touching him or talking to him, Joe was at least able to link two thoughts together. Maybe, to some minor degree, the poison was starting to wear off. His brain did seem to be working better, though trying to explain advanced concepts like life, death, and the comparative values of two human beings was nearly impossible. Fear toxin apparently knocked the ability to be philosophical straight out of people.

Though Scarecrow couldn't hear what his two playthings were talking about, he could make a fairly good educated guess. Escape. Judging by the woman's earlier outburst, Joe had a plan she didn't like. It was probably a plan that involved near-certain death for him and slightly better odds for her. She was too stupid to see that any plan concocted by a man made delusional by fear toxin was a plan doomed to fail. She was also too stupid to realize that neither of them was getting out despite their efforts, so her protests were in vain.

The cabbie said something and his passenger reacted by violently shaking her head. The Scarecrow wondered if shaking her brains all around like rocks in a tumbler helped her headache any. Maybe he ought to inquire. Or maybe he should hold his questions until the end. He decided on the latter option. After all, he knew Joe and Danielle's time for bonding and conspiring was growing short.

Danielle knew it, too. In the muddled currents of his mind, so did Joe. Both of them were tense with anticipation, waiting for the Scarecrow to separate them. They had to reach an agreement before he could make his move.

"Joe, tell me what you're planning. I need to know," Danielle said.

Now it was Joe's turn to shake his head. She didn't need to know. She needed to _not_ know. She needed to react when the time was right, and if she knew it was coming, she wouldn't. She'd stay behind and try to be brave or save him or karate chop the Scarecrow or something that would get her killed.

"You can't keep me in the dark. That isn't fair. Joe, it isn't fair! You have to tell me."

So it wasn't fair. What part of the night had been? Being kidnapped by an escaped mental patient? Being handcuffed and poisoned by said escaped mental patient? Being cut and touched and traumatized? Was _any_ of that fair?

"You're right. It's not fair but that's the way it is," Joe said.

Joe was truly a formidable man to argue with. Unlike politicians, who had to at least stutter out a few talking points no matter the question posed, Joe had no stipulations with saying "tough shit" and moving on. Only his mother and his wife had ever been able to successfully challenge him and as much as he liked Danielle, she would not be the third person he yielded to.

"You're impossible and your arguments _suck_," Danielle muttered. She didn't care if her wordage and tone made her sound like a whiny teenager.

Much to her shame, she also broke down like a hormone-fueled sixteen-year-old. The tears were spontaneous; she didn't even know she was going to cry until she found herself hugging desperately onto Joe and sobbing into his shirt. The cabbie was momentarily stunned; he hadn't expected the opportunity to act as a distraught woman's handkerchief to arise before he was murdered.

This looked like the perfect opportunity to interrupt. Both subjects were strumming with emotions; breaking them apart now would leave all that energy with no outlet. Especially the woman, Danielle. Without the cabbie's supportive shoulder to cry on, she'd reach even greater depths of misery.

"As beautiful and heart-warming as all this love and comfort is, if I'm exposed to any more of it I'm afraid I may develop malignancies. Kindly unlatch yourself from him and return to your seat," Scarecrow said.

If Danielle heard the Scarecrow, she chose to completely ignore him. Instead, she continued to clutch at Joe as though her life depended on keeping him close. With Danielle fastened on like a barnacle, Joe only wished he was able to provide better comfort. Taped as he was, he couldn't even pat her on the back or offer her an encouraging hug in return.

"Enough of the cathartic tears. I don't want you flooding the room. Get away from him and get back in your seat. If I have to tell you a third time, I will drag you there myself."

There were so many words—all of them heavily frowned upon by polite society—that Danielle wanted to hurl at the Scarecrow. She wanted to swear at him and slap him and hurt him like she'd never wanted to hurt anyone before in all her life. It was an ugly feeling, the desire to tear apart another human being, but Danielle couldn't dispel it. If anyone deserved to be hated and maimed, it was the masked creature that had caused so much harm.

"Go ahead. It'll be alright. Go on," Joe said.

"It won't be, though, will it? You're going to get yourself killed," Danielle said. Abruptly, her arms weren't around his neck anymore. She was shuffling, rejected, back to her seat.

The chair was as unfriendly and uncomfortable as ever. Danielle hardly noticed. She hunched forward and buried her face in her arms. Crying into her own shirt offered none of the relief crying into Joe's shirt had. She was alone with her ragged emotions, and Joe was left alone with much worse.

"That was quite possibly the longest thank-you I've ever seen. You two make Mayor Garcia and his daily campaign contribution ass-kissing seem curt by comparison," Scarecrow said.

No sharp remarks greeted him. Scarecrow grinned. That meant he had acted wisely and chosen just the perfect moment to pry his two lab rats apart.

"I can't help but have suspicions regarding the nature of your conversation. While I'm inexperienced in regards to taxi etiquette, I highly doubt the word "bullshit" is commonly used in thanking cabbies for their services," the Scarecrow said. Bullshit, as Crane knew from one bad encounter, was much more appropriate when a cabbie who steered with all the finesse of an 80 year old stroke victim asked for a tip on top of his outrageous fare.

The room was so silent a cockroach scuttling across the floor would have sounded like a tap dance recital. It was obvious neither Joe or Danielle was going to suddenly fall at his feet and reveal whatever they'd been conspiring, so the Scarecrow decided not to wait on them. He wasn't looking for irrefutable evidence; even without a confession, Scarecrow knew Joe and Danielle had been making rudimentary escape plans.

Judged as guilty, the only question left was how to properly administer justice. This was Danielle's second offense. She hadn't even been properly punished for the phone call, and now she was committing more crimes.

And as for Joe… Asides from his role in the conspiracy, he had also repeatedly gotten on Scarecrow's bad side. That alone was usually enough to earn someone a concentrated blast of toxin directly into their respiratory system.

The Scarecrow began to walk in a slow circle around his captives. Danielle didn't respond, even when the footsteps were closest to her. Joe wouldn't risk opening his eyes and catching sight of that make again; he was following the Scarecrow's progress with his ears. Whenever the sound of shoes against bare floor passed by, Joe tensed.

After orbiting like an ominous moon for the better part of five minutes, Scarecrow lashed out. Fully aware of just how badly Joe hated the feel of his hands, he plastered the horrid things to the cabbie's face. Joe couldn't have reacted stronger if a parasitic alien had just attached itself to him.

"I don't know how you have the capacity to plan with that much fear toxin in your system—perhaps you've got an unusually efficient liver that filters at roughly three times the average rate—but I can assure you that you aren't going anywhere. I've got something more effective than even duct tape that will keep you paralyzed with terror. Even you, my special friend, are going to break," Scarecrow hissed.

Joe didn't know how he didn't shriek like a little girl who'd seen a big, hairy spider crawling across the ceiling. The hands were as revolting as they'd ever been. The bandages on the hand Joe had bitten made that hand even worse than the other. It didn't feel like gauze wrapped around the hand; instead, it had the texture of rough burlap, like the fabric of the Scarecrow's mask.

The hands were suddenly gone from his face. Scarecrow had pivoted away from Joe and was heading back to the table to prepare the third dose. It came as a great surprise when he heard the cabbie call him back. What could the idiot possibly want?

"Doc, wait. I want to talk to you. The tent-a-tent, or whatever you called it," Joe said.

"Tête-à-tête, yes. What do you want to talk about? Planning to beg for your life now?"

"No, I'm not. Take the mask off and then I'll tell you. I want to talk to whatever's still human inside you," Joe said.

Crane was intrigued and Scarecrow was miffed. His toys did not get to set the parameters of their conversations. If they didn't like how things were, they could shut up and die. He was not-

The mask slid over his head and Scarecrow was forced to cede control. "I'm Dr. Crane. What would you like to get off your chest?"

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	16. Newtonian Ghosts

Thanks for all the reviews. You guys brighten my days and please me greatly.

To Weird Sister: I don't think you could praise me better if you tried. I deeply appreciate your kind remarks and would just like to say that, if Danielle or Joe was a self-insert character, I would have to be one seriously screwed up masochist, wouldn't I?

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What did he want to get off his chest? Well, he did have a couple of unsightly moles he wouldn't mind bidding farewell. And there was that strangely shaped birthmark that he thought looked like a duck but his wife had insisted looked like Cuba. He wouldn't miss that particular thoracic blemish, either.

While Joe was taking inventory of his various dots, spots, and communist isles, Crane was losing his patience. He'd expected the cabbie to immediately start babbling out long-buried secrets or repressed sins he wanted to finally confess. Those things would be interesting, insightful clues that would help Crane decipher the psyche of Joe. Watching the cabbie sit there, his eyes still closed and his mouth shut, was boring and uninformative.

"I assumed you had something urgent to tell me. If you don't, I have other plans for you," Crane said.

"I was gathering my thoughts," Joe replied.

"Ah, no wonder it took so long. They must have been quite dispersed."

"It's your fault. You and your fear shit."

"Yes, the disruption of the thought process is fascinating, isn't it? Like putting your mind in a blender and setting it to 'puree'."

Christ, the bastard could have been an English major in college, the way he talked. What was the term for those crazy comparisons poets and writers were always making? A metaphor? A diphthong? Whatever the hell it was, Joe hated it. He wasn't in the mood for general figurative language, let alone images of brain slurry.

"Though you may find it hard to believe given your current position, you are in remarkably better mental shape than most of my subjects would be at this point in the experiment. You are lucid, responsive, and not cowering in the corner. I don't know why, but it's intriguing. You are not quite a glitch in the data—you're far from immune to the toxin, you just recover quicker and bear it better—but you are abnormal," Crane said.

Abnormal was not a compliment and the way to get on a man's good side was not to tell him he was a scientific curiosity. Joe got the distinct impression that Crane didn't have very many nice things to say to people. That was alright, though. Joe didn't need to be lavished with praise; he just needed to get Crane talking.

"It's also abnormal that I would delay administering the third dose, especially when I consider how difficult you and your friend have made this. I am familiar with difficult patients—in Arkham, I had a man attempt to choke himself by eating his jumpsuit—but I've never been bitten before. I haven't been hit with a shoe, either," Crane said.

"First time for everything," Joe muttered.

"Yes, but you aren't going to get a second chance to speak. You won't get a first chance if all you're going to do is mumble smart comments under your breath. Whatever you have to say, say it before I render you incapable of doing so."

"Alright, I've got to ask you something," Joe said.

"Then ask it."

"Look, I don't want her hearing this."

"I'm afraid that's too bad. You're not getting any more concessions," Crane said.

Shit. Joe hadn't expected it to be that easy, and it wasn't. He'd have to try harder to lure the Scarecrow in closer. As counter-intuitive to survival as it sounded, if anybody was going to have a shot at getting out alive, Joe needed to be within inches of Crane.

"Then forget it for now, you dick."

Mistake. He'd made a serious mistake. Joe's instincts—to be as insulting as possible to the mad doctor—had kicked in before his brain could override them. The words had been spontaneous but they might have cost him everything.

"Whether you had something of import to tell me or whether you were stalling, your time is up. In more ways than one, your clock has run down. Enjoy your last precious minutes of sanity."

Damn it. Damn it! Joe felt panic dig its claws into him. He needed to act fast but about the only thing Joe did quickly was shoot off his mouth. When it came to thinking, as much as he hated to admit it, Crane had him severely outclassed. When a doctor went up against a cabbie in a battle of the wits, even the most loyal supporter of the underdog was firmly in the doctor's corner.

"Stop! You want to hear me beg, I'll do it. I'll be your dog. Just listen to me."

Scarecrow cheered with savage glee. Did he want to see Joe brought low? That was like asking an alcoholic if he wanted a free round. He'd like nothing more than to have the cabbie humiliate himself.

"Let her go. Please. You can have me. I won't fight, I won't be a smart-ass. I'm done. Do whatever you want to me but let her go," Joe said.

"That's it? I hoped you had a serious proposition for me. You're offering me something I already have. Both of you are mine and will remain mine."

"I'll play with your monster. Whatever he or it is, I'll look at him. I won't close my eyes."

Now that was an offer Crane would have trouble refusing. He had no intention of cutting Danielle free, but there was no reason Joe had to know that. Lying to a doomed guinea pig wouldn't exactly weigh on Crane's conscience.

"Open your eyes."

After taking a deep breath and trying to mentally prepare himself for what he was about to see, Joe opened his eyes. He had half-recoiled in disgust before he realized he wasn't looking at the burlap fiend. Crane hadn't put his mask back on; the face Joe saw was perfectly human.

"Scarecrow is not a monster and I would advise you to never address him as one again. I don't know exactly what to call him but he is not a monster; he's not a mental disease, either," Crane said.

"I don't care what he is. It's the same offer."

"We'll take it."

"Fine. Get those handcuffs off her and let her leave. Then I'm yours," Joe said.

"You don't trust me," Crane said. "I'm hurt."

"You're hurt? I'm the one who's been stabbed a hundred freaking times. You let Danielle go or you can go to hell." Joe was desperate, but he wasn't stupid. The lunatic would renege as soon as the mask was back on and Joe was fully aware of that.

Crane smirked. "If that's the way you want it, then forget it."

Joe did not like having his words turned around on him. Especially not by some smarmy little bastard who looked like he couldn't win a fistfight against a twelve-year-old girl. He wanted to punch Crane in the face and see how smart the doctor was when his nose suddenly migrated halfway around his head.

No matter how much of his anger could be blamed on Crane, Joe was angry at himself, too. He'd gotten another chance by some miracle and he blew it. He was not going to outsmart a mad scientist, even one with an ego roughly the size of Jupiter. Joe could have banged his head off the wall in frustration.

"Do you have anything else to bribe me with, or are you finally out of stupid ideas?" Crane asked.

"I'm never out of stupid ideas. Good ones, yeah, those I'm running out of but I've still got plenty of stupid ones left."

If Joe was going to be honest, he was desperately short of even stupid ideas. He'd probably never had a chance, even with his best ideas. If he couldn't even talk his way out of a speeding ticket—it turns out cops didn't care if you were trying to get to Burger King before breakfast was over—what chance did he have against some super villain? It was probably a more pathetic matchup than bringing a water pistol to a gunfight.

With his idea tank down to the dregs and what felt suspiciously like despair settling over him like a shroud, the cabbie found himself staring defeat in the face. He'd done his best and failure was still ready to overtake him. He felt like he was back in chemistry class, honestly studying for the first time in his life and still flunking in glorious fashion. The only difference was failing chemistry led to summer school; failing here meant he and Danielle were going to die.

"Here's one for you. You let her go, or my ghost will haunt you."

Crane laughed. "That's the first time I've ever been threatened with a haunting. Perhaps if I believed in ghosts, I might consider it. Unfortunately, I know they simply cannot exist. Their alleged properties violate Newtonian physics."

"Can you explain that to me?" Joe asked.

"Explain what?"

"All of it."

"You're stalling again and it isn't going to work," Crane said.

"Come on, I don't want to die without learning about Newtonian physics and ghost shit."

"Don't worry about that. I'll give you something to clear your head."

Crane reached the table and his briefcase without any further nonsense from the cabbie. He placed his mask on the table. In his head, he heard Scarecrow ask exactly what he was doing. Scarecrow was like a caged lion, pacing around and desperate for the opportunity to get out and maul someone. Crane was keeping the cage door locked and Scarecrow was not amused by the continued confinement.

The doctor knew how badly his dark half wanted to play. However, just for a little while, Crane wanted to study Joe before Scarecrow destroyed him. The third dose, a concentration just below the fatal limit, wreaked total havoc on the mind. A single exposure was enough to induce insanity in certain people—Crane wondered if Carmine Falcone had ever come back into contact with reality or if he was in some half-forgotten cell in Arkham muttering endlessly about scarecrows—but doubted if Joe would be one of those people. There would be plenty of time for Scarecrow to do as he pleased. Crane was not selfish; he could share so long as his needs were met first.

There were just two glass vials left in the case. Crane selected one and placed it next to his mask. The clear liquid looked no more harmful than water yet had the ability to instill overwhelming terror in the sturdiest of men (and in obviously unbalanced freaks who dressed as bats). It was distilled fear. It was beautiful, at least in the doctor's opinion.

"I don't have the time to teach you about physics, but I think I can spare the time for a little chemistry lesson," Crane said.

"Don't bother. I'm shit at chemistry," Joe said.

"I promise to make this easy to understand. Believe me, this is a lesson you want to hear. It's very interesting and pertinent to your situation."

"I failed summer school but my teacher felt so bad for me she made up some bullshit extra credit so I could pass."

Crane could have laughed at both Joe's academic woes and his teacher's misguided compassion. The idea of failing any subject was absurd to Crane, but the idea of helping a student of Joe's caliber cheat his way to graduation was even worse. Whoever this wayward teacher had been, Crane wished he could introduce her to his special brand of chemistry.

"There is one chance to hear this lesson and only one. You can ignore it if you'd like, but considering it concerns your impending descent into madness, I would suggest you pay attention."

"I'm all ears, doc. Bore 'em off me," Joe replied.

Though Joe wasn't exactly eager for the last chemistry lesson of his life, Thomas Schiff would have given his entire right hand to be in the room with Crane and his unwilling students. Instead, he was crushed against a wall, a knife was at his throat, and he was more terrified than he'd ever been in a non-Scarecrow related situation.

"P-please let me go! I just needed to get rid of the phone! Please, I didn't mean to wake you up. It was an accident, I'm sorry, I am, I don't want to die," Schiff said.

"You don't? No, they never do. I don't understand why; I'm actually doing them a favor," Thomas' attacker said.

"I like my life, I do! Really. Scarecrow scares me sometimes but Dr. Crane can actually stand my presence. He told me, to my face, more than once."

The pressure on the knife decreased but the blade stayed in place. "How do you know Crane?"

"He was my doctor, my doctor in Arkham. I work for him now."

Schiff might have believed Larry King's suspenders were mind-control devices, but even he was lucid enough to know how good connections worked. If you knew the right people, you were all but untouchable. Dropping Crane's name was probably enough to make this hobo quake in his boots.

Instead of quaking, the hobo laughed. "It really is a small world. He was my doctor, too. Except he wasn't trying to cure me—there's nothing _wrong_ with me—he was just keeping me out of prison. I was useful to certain people. Most of them are now dead or just gone—Batman probably got them—and I haven't had a paying job in almost a year. It's not bad, though. I'm free to pursue my own hobbies."

"Good for you. Like on those commercials of old people playing golf in Florida. You're free and retired and that's nice."

"It is indeed. Do you want to know what I do now, with all my spare time?"

"Golf?"

"No."

The knife suddenly bit into Schiff's neck hard enough to draw blood. He yelped in surprise and pain. Whatever sick hobbies this guy enjoyed, Thomas wanted no further participation.

The turbulent life of Thomas Schiff would have ended within seconds if not for a most fortuitous event. Despite being treated like a soccer ball and sustaining a disfiguring crack across its screen, Danielle's sturdy little cell phone remained operable. Just before the knife could be drawn across the schizophrenic's vulnerable throat, the phone began to ring.

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No, I have no idea where Joe would have learned about diphthongs.


	17. Terrorism Rainbow

Thanks so much for the reviews!

I have some news for everyone. This story is slowly coming to a close. I'm not quite sure how many chapters are left, but it's in all likelihood less than five. So, thanks for hanging with me this long and I hope you all see it through to the end.

To Weird Sister: You're absolutely right. I don't think an author can help it. Some of her traits are bound to be reflected in the characters she creates and in way she writes canon characters, too.

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"How do you tell that shit apart? Why didn't you color-code it or something? I mean, they color-coded the terrorist threat level. Weren't you smart enough to do the same?" Joe asked. He'd been wondering for some time how Crane told the different potencies of poison apart, and decided now was a good time to pose the question.

"Was your high school too impoverished to ever bring in a guest speaker? Weren't you told to hold your questions to the end of the lecture?" Crane said.

"I snuck out of all the assemblies because they sucked," Joe replied. "I don't know anything about when to ask questions."

"It isn't when I'm trying to explain my fear toxin to you! Even a simpleton would realize that."

Joe shut his mouth. He was not a simpleton. He was just fond of simple things: simple life style, simple apartment, simple job, and simple four-letter words.

"Thank you; you've saved me from needing to waste more duct tape on you," Crane said.

With his audience finally silent—except for Danielle, who was still making the occasional sniffle—Crane began his grand chemistry lesson. He picked the vial up from the table and, cradling it with the care one would show a beloved crystal or glass tchotchke, brought it over to Joe. The cabbie had no idea why he was getting such a close view of the little container and didn't really care. He only wished he had an arm free so he could knock the vial out of Crane's hands.

"To answer your earlier question, I _did_ color-code it. Wouldn't Homeland Security be so pleased to know? Do you see this dot here? I know it's too small to be seen from any distance, so only I am privy to what strength I am administering," Crane explained.

Joe squinted at the vial's label and found the orange flea-sized speck Crane had pointed out. It really was invisible from a distance of more than two feet. It also raised another question.

"Let me see the other bottles," Joe said.

"Why don't you try _asking_ instead of _telling_?"

"Why don't you try not being a bastard for once?"

"I believe you may be suicidal," Crane said. Despite his loathing for Joe, he complied with the cabbie's demands. One by one, not risking carrying all his precious chemicals at one time, Crane gave Joe a close-up of each poison.

After being shown the two weaker formulas he'd already endured, Joe caught on. The Scarecrow had actually done as Joe suggested and had plagiarized the threat level's coloring scheme. Blue, yellow, and orange, the same as on the terrorism threat scale, marked each of the vials. Joe would stake his taxi on the last poison bearing a red dot.

Handling the last and lethal dose with exceptional care, Crane held it out for Joe's inspection. Sure enough, he found the miniscule red spot. If by some miracle he survived, Joe intended to let Homeland Security know its terrorism rainbow had been hijacked by a costumed mad scientist. Then the Scarecrow would see just how _pleased_ the government was with his thieving ways when his bony ass was hauled off to Guantanamo Bay.

"This is going to kill you and your death will be ugly. You should look at it now, because when the time comes, you will be in no condition to understand even basic sensory input," Crane said.

"I was admiring it, doc, until you went and said all that. Now my viewing experience is shot," Joe said.

"I wonder if you'd be so full of sarcasm if I put my mask back on and then continued the lesson."

Joe was half-tempted to dare Crane to do it, but decided against another encounter with the walking, bug-infested nightmare. He'd take the doctor with all the attitude and grossly inflated ego and prissy comments over the burlap creature with the sea parasite for a tongue. Those same snarky comments, while only annoying from Crane, became horrifyingly unbearable when they emerged from Scarecrow's unnatural maw.

"If your curiosity is now sated, perhaps I can move on. And please, refrain from asking any more questions. All you will get for your effort is an early demonstration," Crane warned.

Returning the fatal fourth dose and retrieving the third one, Crane began to teach. Danielle wiped her eyes on her shirt sleeve and decided to pay full attention. As much as she hated to admit it, Crane would probably have made a convincing college professor: the idea of him ever getting near grade-school children horrified her too much to even contemplate it. At the very least, everyone would be too afraid to fail his class. Not even after the worst night of drinking imaginable would his students dare to skip. A teacher with Crane's presence and bravado—but lacking his evil and toxic chemicals—might have been useful to a few of Danielle's less-than-motivated friends

"As unbelievable as it may sound, all the terror you've experienced tonight can be traced back to a rare Eastern Asian flower. This flower, when burned, induces peculiar hallucinations and transmogrifies perception. That's a far cry from rendering someone insane with fear, of course. With the funding and resources of a 'friend', I was able to synthesize and weaponize the flower's chemicals. It was by no means easy, but I would say well worth the effort," Crane said.

Joe was flabbergasted. A flower. He'd seen his dead grandmother, a demonic scarecrow, and a blinding white landscape all because of a flower? It couldn't be because Crane was some sort of rogue government agent who escaped Area 51 with a top-secret chemical weapon or anything that would make a good Tom Clancy novel. No, it had to be because of a stupid-ass Asian plant.

"I hate you even more than I did before. I can't believe it. I'm going to be killed by a flower," Joe moaned.

"Only indirectly. I did synthesize the flower's unique chemical properties. Through inorganic means, I was able to manufacture large quantities of the drug. The flower, as I said, is quite rare and digging up half of Tibet would be a problem."

"I still don't get it. Look, I _failed_ chemistry! Then I took it in summer school and I _failed_ it again. Do you see what I'm saying? I have no idea what you're talking about," Joe said.

"There is no simpler way to explain it. It is by no means a difficult concept to grasp," Crane said.

"Maybe not for you and Albert Einstein, but I don't know jack about 'synthesizing' or any of that," Joe said. "It's not my fault you're a shitty teacher."

"It's not my fault you received a subpar education and can hardly understand the cooking directions on a TV dinner."

"Are you calling me stupid?"

"I certainly am not nominating you for a Nobel Prize."

"You-"

"None of that even matters! It's all back story. We're moving on," Crane said, hoping to stymie any further argument.

"We're not going anywhere until I know what the hell you're talking about. You want to teach me before you kill me, you do it right."

Crane felt like pulling out his own hair and Scarecrow felt like pulling out Joe's hair, strand by strand. There was no way to dumb down his research any more. He'd thrown out all the processes, all the chemical formulas, all the sweat and blood he'd put into it. It was hollow, a shell, a husk; there was nothing else to scoop out.

"It's like aspirin."

Joe and Crane both stared at Danielle with incredulity written all over their faces. Danielle was more than surprised herself. She wasn't quite sure what had given her the nerve to wade into the fray, but now all eyes were definitely on her.

"Seattle has a lot of hippies. My neighbor is one of them. One day, I saw him picking bark off a tree. I asked him what he was doing and he told me that willow bark was used by Native Americans for pain relief since the dawn of time. Then some German guy found out what chemicals in willow bark actually stopped pain. He was able to make these chemicals in a lab and the artificial medicine was called aspirin. My neighbor just likes making willow bark tea more than he likes paying for aspirin," Danielle said.

"What kind of a scientist are you? A _hippie_ explained to me! When you get back to Seattle, help that hippie plant a tree for me, okay?" Joe said.

Barely fending off the urge to grind his teeth, Crane said, "Since it seems to have finally penetrated your brain, may I move on to the part of the lesson you should actually care about?"

"Yeah, that sounds great. I've actually got a translator who can tell me what the hell you're talking about. You're too dumb to dumb it down, I'm too dumb to smarten up. She's gotta be the smartest person in the room," Joe said.

A faint blush rose in Danielle's cheeks. Crane snorted at the idea Danielle's intelligence came within a hundred yards of his.

"I don't think you'll need her services for this part. It is a simple rundown of what you will experience when this-"Crane gave the vial a shake "-enters your bloodstream."

"I'm dying to know, doc. No pun intended."

"You cannot possibly imagine how happy I will be when you permanently lose your sarcasm and your less-than-charming wit," Crane said.

"The sooner we get this crap over with, the sooner you can get your wish. Come on, get to the horror and the screaming and whatever else I'm gonna be doing here," Joe said.

"Often, the anticipation is worse than the actual event. However, this is not one of those cases. Do yourself a favor and don't rush it."

Joe had no response and Crane continued. This was the good part, the meat of his lecture. This was also the last part before the demonstration.

Crane stepped away from Joe and returned to the table. He needed a new visual aid. Something a good deal scarier to the cabbie than the innocuous vial, something Crane knew put Joe on edge.

After the whole biting debacle surrounding the second dose of fear toxin, Scarecrow had dropped the needle so he wouldn't, in his infinite anger, give into impulse and kill Joe with it. Instead of taking the extra second and placing it on the table, he'd let it fall to the floor. Now, Crane was annoyed with his dark half's unthinking move.

Though he'd gotten over the taboo of reusing needles, Crane was not about to stick even a nuisance like Joe with one that had rolled under a table. He did have some semblance of professional pride left, even if his profession had disowned him and barred him from ever practicing again in any nation on Earth. Besides, for being such a sturdy test subject, the cabbie deserved sterile instruments.

Like a good Boy Scout, Crane was prepared for this situation. He had placed a spare syringe in his briefcase. He hadn't wanted to use it—living as a fugitive did make it difficult to procure any type of medical supplies and the less he used the less he needed to steal—but the situation called for it.

"Do I get a last request? Or a last meal? I don't want to die hungry," Joe said.

"I don't have any food," Crane said absently. He was occupied with the task at hand. That task was making sure Joe had a clear view of the poison slowly filling the needle.

"Then what do you and your little maniac friend eat? The plaster?" Joe asked.

"Let me clarify. I don't have any food _for you_." Crane figured the dosage was more than enough to send Joe over the edge and replaced the vial in his briefcase.

"I could murder a dozen people, and even in Texas they'd feed me before they killed me," Joe said.

"Texas can afford to feed its death row inmates. I don't have the food to waste on you. Besides, this isn't the end. If you're still sane enough to feed yourself in a few hours, when this dose wears off, I will find you a cookie," Crane said.

Either because he was satisfied with the promised cookie or because he had nothing else to say, Joe let the doctor continue. Crane, needle in hand, walked back towards the cabbie. Joe kept his eyes firmly focused on the approaching man, giving no hint of any emotions he might have been experiencing at the moment.

"This is the dose I routinely gave to my patients at Arkham. If Thomas was here, you could ask him about it. The stories he'd tell you about scarecrows and monsters. Maybe when he returns, if he hasn't accidentally wandered in front of a bus, he can watch you suffer and tell me what memories it brings back."

Schiff was busy making some new terror-filled memories. There was blood—just a trickle but so hot and horrifying—running down his neck and soaking into his shirt. His mind was filled with a mad buzzing, too many thoughts were going on at once, and the phone's ringtone was only adding to that chaos. Thomas wanted cover his ears, block out both the internal and external noise, but panic only worsened the symptoms of his schizophrenia.

"Answer it. Say hello."

Schiff whimpered. Now someone was talking, too. He didn't like it. His head was already full.

The knife that had been poised to end him was removed and his arm, bent nearly to the point of dislocation, was released. Thomas fell to his knees.

"Don't be rude. The phone is ringing. Maybe someone wants to say goodbye to you."

"I-I don't…" Schiff trailed off.

The phone was suddenly pressed into his palm. It vibrated and continued to play its chime. A clumsy, shaking finger finally found the button that connected the call.

"H-hello Who is this?" Thomas stammered.

"This is Detective Gerard Stephens with the Gotham City Police Department. I'm investigating a missing person-"

"It's for you!" Schiff exclaimed. He threw the phone at the psychotic hobo.

Acting on instinct, the knife-wielding attacker grabbed for the phone. Taking the momentary distraction, Schiff made a break for it. Forgetting to look out for broken glass, rusty nails, or anything else that might easily stab through a sock, the schizophrenic ran like he'd never run in his life. He had no idea of even what cardinal direction he was headed, but any place had to be better than that alleyway of certain death.

Back in the alley, the hobo brought the phone up to his ear. "I'm sorry, would you like to repeat that?"

"What happened to whoever just had the phone? Where did he go? Put him back on. He may have vital information regarding a police investigation."

"I'm afraid he's gone. Not in the way I intended, but still gone."

"Who was he? Do you know his name or address? We need to talk to him."

"I don't know either of those things."

There was a sigh of frustration and the hobo smiled. He liked getting under people's skin. Oftentimes with his knives, but for now just with his words.

Though, if he was lucky, before the night was over, his knives would have the same pleasure.

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For any international readers or US readers who are unfamiliar, the US has a scale, color-coded, to show what the risk is for a terrorist attack. It goes from green, a low threat level, to red, which means basically in two minutes everything is going to blow up. The colors run: green, blue, yellow, orange, red.


	18. Cookie Monster

Thank you all for the reviews! I thank you, my mother thanks you, my sister thanks you, my pet chicken thanks you. Especially the chicken and I. We _really _thank you.

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Detective Gerard Stephens wasn't having a bad day. He wasn't having a bad week. He wasn't having a bad month.

He was having one hell of a bad _year_.

Between the clown, the bat, Harvey Dent's murder, and the sudden explosion of crimes committed by freaks in increasingly weird and tacky costumes, Stephens and the whole police force were being run ragged. The detective felt like he hardly slept, his body had adapted to consuming only coffee and donuts, and his work never ended. Just when things looked like they might quiet down, some new theme criminal decided to try his luck.

Stephens sighed. At least the Scarecrow was an old themed criminal. In fact, he was the oldest. He was also perhaps the least weird, at least costume-wise. Sure, he wore a bag on his head. That was nothing compared to the pyromaniac a few unlucky officers had stumbled across last week.

Reporting to a robbery at an office tower, four officers had walked in on a man dressed as a bug and armed with a homemade flamethrower. This freak, who was wearing on his head what amounted to a motorcycle helmet with a pair of steel antenna welded to it, tried to flash-fry the cops. By sheer dumb luck—or shitty engineering—the flamethrower had exploded. The buggy perp, Firefly or Firebug or some equally laughable villainous moniker, had suffered burns over thirty percent of his body and was currently in intensive care.

Now _that_ was poetic justice. Stephens needed a little luck like that sent his way. He was getting nowhere and it was starting to give him a headache.

"Are you still there, detective? You don't seem very interested in our conversation."

Much to his chagrin, Stephens discovered he'd zoned out while talking to what might possibly be an important lead in his case. He needed more coffee. And a nap.

"I am still here and I'm very interested in anything you might have to say that can help us solve this case. Can you give me a name before I ask you any further question?" Stephens said.

Expecting an obvious alias like John Smith or Tom Jones, Stephens was surprised to get what sounded like an actual name. It was rare to get any help that wasn't entirely anonymous when it came to the costumed criminals. People were understandably terrified of them.

"Victor Zsasz. And how do you spell…" Something clicked in the detective's mind. That name was oddly familiar, and not in a good way.

Stephens racked his brains, trying to recall where he had heard the unusual name before. It took him a minute to mentally backtrack through old cases, pulling up suspects, witnesses, and any other names of import he could. Finally, the right circuits connected and the detective swore softly, holding the phone away so he wouldn't be heard.

While looking for a woman who had been kidnapped by the Scarecrow, he'd stumbled across a mentally unbalanced, legally insane serial killer. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Stephens was a twenty-year man, but he had never come across a situation like this before.

"Have you fallen asleep, detective?"

"I'm wide awake, you sick bastard," Stephens responded. He was fully alert, his desire for a fourth cup of coffee vanished into the ether. Adrenaline made caffeine superfluous.

"I'm not sick, detective. I'm not a bastard either; my parents were happily married. What I do isn't sick. It's a service, a _gift_. I've been sharing it with a lot of people lately."

"What kind of 'gift' could someone like you give people?"

"Come to the Narrows, alone and unarmed, and I'll show you."

Detective Stephens had every intention of doing just that. Only, he wouldn't be alone. As soon as his drag-ass partner got the phone's location traced, Stephens and as many spare cops as he could round up were going to bring the full wrath of the GCPD down on this psychopath's head. If the killer had any idea where Stephens' missing person was, that would make the deal all the sweeter. If not, at least one menace would be back behind bars and the detective would try something else. He swore to himself that he'd find Danielle. He'd never be able to face her grandmother if he didn't.

Miles away from where Detective Stephens was waiting impatiently for a trace on the cell phone, Danielle was discovering just how useful she was as a translator. Joe, who now seemed dead-set on driving Crane to a higher plane of insanity, had found a new way to torment his tormentor. Despite what the doctor had promised—that this part of the lesson would so easy even a caveman like Joe could understand it—the cabbie was requesting a translation on every single sentence Crane spoke.

"What exactly do you mean by "is"?" Joe asked.

"Is! It's a simple linking verb. There is no grandiose definition of it. It just is," Crane replied.

"And what's a linking verb?"

"I'm going to kill you with my bare hands if you don't shut up and let me finish."

"I'm doing my best here, doc. Your fancy terminology is beating me, though. Really, I am trying my hardest to take it all in and not have an aneurysm."

Crane was trying his hardest, too: trying his hardest not to let Scarecrow regain control. If that happened, the opportunity to gain any viable information from the cabbie would be gone. Scarecrow wasn't interested in research; he was interested in making sure Joe suffered and then expired in the most hideous ways humanly possible. Crane could certainly sympathize—he was beyond sick and tired of the cabbie's games—but he hated to waste a good test subject even more than he hated wasting supplies.

"I realize this is the most exercise your brain has ever gotten and it must feel like it has run the mental equivalent of a marathon. However, it only needs to strain its sparse neurons for a few more minutes. Try to focus and actually learn something. You did want me to teach, so why don't you pay attention?" Crane suggested.

Joe had the audacity to snort at the doctor's claims. "To be honest, I've been shitting with you. I get what you're saying. I don't really need you to define 'is' for me. Or helping verbs. I think I remember them from school or _Sesame Street_. And, not to burst your bubble or anything, but my brain has worked harder than this."

"Has it really? When? The last time you attempted to program a VCR?"

"No, the last time I tried to do a five-star Sudoku puzzle."

Now it was Crane's turn to scoff. On the rare occasions he had access to newspapers, the first thing he did after scanning the headlines was solve whatever puzzles were available. He could do Sudoku in his sleep. Word jumbles he'd be able to master while comatose.

"Defeated by a puzzle in the paper. You never did have a chance of leaving here alive, not if number squares are your better," Crane said.

"I wasn't defeated. I sat at the kitchen table for _three goddamn_ _hours_ and I solved it. I don't know what that says about me as a person—probably that I need some new hobbies—but I didn't let some stupid game beat me I'm not letting some little geek do it, either. You can kill me, sure, and you're probably going to. But I can die and I can still win."

It would have been inspiring if it wasn't so pathetic. Crane reached out with his injured hand, careful to avoid Joe's mouth and the 32 teeth therein, and gently patted the cabbie on the head like one would a loyal dog. Joe grimaced at the contact.

"There, there. I won't make you give any more noble speeches. It's almost over and I should spare us both from having to endure that again," Crane said.

"You're mocking me, you asshole," Joe said.

"_I wasn't defeated. I can still win_. Who do you think you are, Nathan Hale? I've had test subjects react in all manner of bizarre ways, but I've never had one turn into an orator. I hope it never happens again. It's terrible to listen to."

"You've got no soul. I don't have to be a doctor to know you're nothing but a scrawny coward with a Napoleon complex and a medical degree you can't even use anymore. You're a loser and a nutcase."

Crane scowled. "Do you think it's wise to insult me?"

"No, and I really don't give a shit. I'm pretty much past the point where I can care. I mean, I think I've got about a pint of blood on my pants, you don't want to know what my hand feels like right now, and I feel like I got in a fight with Freddy fricking Krueger. Compared to all that, me calling you a couple of names is pretty light."

"And you think antagonizing me is going to help you with any of those problems?" Crane asked.

"Pissing you off makes me feel better."

"Until I retaliate for your stupid remarks. Then you feel quite a bit worse. Do you think a few moments of satisfaction are worth what I do to you?"

"That satisfaction is pretty much all I've got to look forward to. And my cookie. I'm waiting for that, too."

"Between you and that cookie, there's only the gulf of your worst fears."

"Doesn't sound too bad."

The doctor replied, "It's a wide gulf, full of screaming things that want to eat you and strip your sanity until you're nothing but a whimpering shell."

"Sounds like an episode of _Springer_."

To Crane's surprise, he heard Scarecrow's evil cackle echo inside his head. It seemed that for all of Crane's sophistication and intelligence, his dark half enjoyed watching whores yank each others' weaves and throw chairs at their deadbeat boyfriends. Crane was deeply disappointed in Scarecrow. Scarecrow didn't care; he liked seeing lower life forms slap and brawl and inbreed. It made him feel even more superior than he usually did.

"Don't ever compare my compound to such trash. In fact, don't speak at all. Let me explain the effects and then we'll see how you handle them."

"And then I get my cookie," Joe said.

Crane glared, "If you're still sane enough to eat it."

"It better be a good cookie, and not macadamia nut. I hate that kind."

Crane made a mental note to administer a second round if Joe seemed to recover from the first dose with any lucidity intact. There was no way he was giving the miscreant a cookie, whether it was earned or not.

"The only way you'll find out is if you shut your mouth. Now, open your ears and let me finish the lesson."

"My cookie-"

"Think of it as a mental blitzkrieg, wiping out everything in its path. As the toxin affects your brain—and this will take only seconds—your facilities will go down. Your ability to tell fantasy from reality will disappear, and your hallucinations will appear as real as I am. Your strongest fears, even ones you've kept repressed, will be brought forward. Fear will be your ruling emotion and your higher, evolved capacities—logic, reason, emotional control, dignity—will be no match for it. Your heart will beat wildly as your body tries unsuccessfully to flee what threatens it. You will thrash, scream, try to fend off invisible monsters, and perform any number of entertaining acts," Crane said.

"Whoa, that definitely sounds like _Sp_-"Joe was rudely cut off.

"While you do all that, I will observe. When I have learned enough about what makes you tremble, Scarecrow can have you. I believe you will end up fearing him more than you fear anything else. He, as you know, has a certain presence. Those under the influence of fear toxin have a special affinity for that presence."

Scarecrow rubbed his incorporeal hands together with dark glee. He was looking forward to his glorious reappearance. Crane had better take his notes fast. Once the panic set in and the victims started crying, Scarecrow found it very difficult to contain himself. Fear to him was like the scent of blood for other predators.

Joe nodded. "I get it all. Scary shit, more scary shit, and then my old burlap buddy molests me. Sounds great. You sure you don't just want to shoot me in the head? I'm sure my brains would make a nice Rorschach blot on the wall."

"Blood on white walls…no, I don't think I want to spend all that effort cleaning up. Besides, you wanted this. You practically volunteered. If you were to die in a spray of blood, cerebral tissue and skull fragments, I'd only have your marvelous translator to play with. She won't last long."

Danielle paled at both the violent imagery and the reminder of her own eventual therapy sessions. Something inside, though, something that felt hardly larger than a seed pearl, sparked to life as the color drained from her face. That small flame was sick of being afraid, sick of being helpless, and sick of being dangled over Joe's head. It was sick of seeing the Scarecrow taunt and gloat, sick of Danielle's inaction, and sick of watching an innocent man suffer. It wanted to fight. It just needed a chance to grow and an opportunity to do something useful.

Before Danielle's flame could spread to the rest of her, Crane decided to complete his lesson. His subjects had absorbed all they would from auditory learning. Now it was time for a bit of kinesthetic learning.

"You aren't planning to bite me or resist, are you? Don't. I will not make this unnecessarily painful," Crane said.

"No, no more biting," Joe said. Danielle was appalled to hear resignation in his voice.

Crane reached down and wrapped his fingers around Joe's wrist. The doctor was kind enough to choose the hand he hadn't cut to ribbons. Again having to work his way around Schiff's erratic tape patterns, Crane needed a moment to find a vein.

Scarecrow demanded to see a close-up of the cabbie's reactions. He wanted to see Joe's eyes cloud first and briefly with confusion and then with unmitigated terror. Since he was being denied first blood in favor of Crane's research, Scarecrow felt he deserved to at least witness the moment when Joe lost it.

Acquiescing to Scarecrow's demands, Crane ignored his own desire for personal space and leaned in closer. Their faces less than a foot apart, the cabbie and the doctor met each other's eyes. Joe, refusing to betray whatever he was feeling, would not look away or blink. He was the perfect stoic, even when he felt the sting in his wrist.

"You're never getting that cookie, you stupid bastard," Crane said.

Joe managed to smile even as the first drops of poison burned in his veins. At the last moment, he had concocted a simple plan. Now it was time to put it into action.

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Nathan Hale is the Revolutionary War hero whose last words before his execution were "I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country".

There are three basic methods of learning: auditory, visual, and kinesthetic, which is learning by doing something.


	19. Headaches

Thanks for the reviews! You guys are even cooler than Chuck Norris. But don't tell him I said that; he will find me, and he will kill me.

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Joe's master plan, conceived with only seconds to spare, consisted of headbutting Crane with all the force he could muster. Taped as he was, the only things Joe could move freely enough to utilize as a weapon were his shoulders and his head. Crane's unfortunate proximity to the cabbie put him in range, and before the doctor could react, he was stumbling backwards, his vision a white sheet of blinding agony.

Joe, despite having a skull thick enough to meet a charging Bighorn Sheep, nearly knocked himself unconscious. He'd only headbutted one other person in his entire life; that had been nearly twenty years ago and both parties had been drunk. Time and a lack of practice made his attack nearly as damaging to him as it had been to its intended target.

Blinking back the fireworks that danced in his vision and doing his best to ignore the migraine that nearly brought tears to his eyes, Joe tried to find the Scarecrow. He prayed the bastard was down, unconscious, concussed, maybe bleeding inside his brain. If he wasn't, if the headbutt had failed to drop the Scarecrow, Joe knew he was worse than dead.

It took the cabbie only a few seconds to spot Crane. He was lying on the floor, sprawled out and unmoving. Despite feeling as though a two ton boulder had just been dropped on his head, Joe grinned. Holy shit, by some miracle, he'd done it!

"Danielle, get out of here before he wakes up. Run, do you hear me? Run!"

As though her seat had become suddenly electrified, Danielle jumped to her feet. She did as Joe ordered. She ran.

Just not for the door.

If Joe thought she was leaving now, he was crazy. The Scarecrow was out cold, and there was ample time for both of his prisoners to escape. Danielle wasn't going anywhere unless Joe was with her.

Before Joe could go anywhere, he'd have to get free of all the duct tape. Danielle knew there was no way she could unravel it all or pull it off; duct tape was notoriously stubborn and liked to stay stuck. She'd have no choice but to cut through it.

The only cutting instrument available, unfortunately, seemed to be Crane's bloody scalpel. It was still on the table and bore more than a little of Joe's drying blood. Swallowing her squeamishness, Danielle reached for the blade. Her fingers brushed it and she recoiled in disgust. The blood was now tacky and traces of it stuck to her fingers.

"Pull yourself together!" Danielle said.

She reached out again, this time discovering the fortitude to pick up the scalpel. Ignoring the way her stomach flopped and her palms sweated, Danielle held on to it. She found that if she averted her eyes and pretended she was carrying something innocuous like a paintbrush or spoon, the urge to faint or puke all over the floor decreased somewhat.

"I'll have you out of there in a second, Joe," Danielle said.

To Danielle's surprise, instead of rejoicing at his imminent freedom, Joe was cringing away from her. The look on his face suggested Danielle was wearing a mask of human skin and waving a chainsaw around. She paused just a few feet from Joe's chair.

"What's wrong, Joe? I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just going to cut the duct tape and then we'll get the hell out of here," Danielle said.

"Jesus, I know you won't hurt me. I _know_ it. But I see that scalpel and I don't see you anymore. It's the Scarecrow, he's holding it, and he'd hurt me with it."

"You're hallucinating, that's what it is. How much of that…stuff did he actually give you?" Danielle asked.

"I don't know; not as much as he wanted to, that's for sure. It's awful anyway."

"What if you just looked away for a little while? I'll cut the tape and you won't even have to see the scalpel," Danielle suggested.

Joe liked the plan. He turned his head, closed his eyes for good measure, and Danielle approached. She kept the scalpel down, in the least aggressive stance possible.

"Just hold on for a minute, Joe. I don't like this thing anymore than you do."

"That's kind of hard to believe," Joe muttered.

As quickly as she could without running the risk of cutting Joe instead of the tape, Danielle went to work. Schiff had gone light years beyond the necessary with all the duct tape he'd wrapped around the cabbie. Joe would have never been able to get out of the sticky silver cocoon without assistance. Even with Danielle there to help, it would be a tedious process.

While Danielle made slow but steady progress in the war on duct tape, Jonathan Crane made no great strides towards regaining consciousness. He was out cold and looked to remain that way for the immediate future.

Scarecrow, however, was quite a bit livelier than his counterpart. It was nearly inconceivable to consider two separate entities sharing a body while retaining sovereign thoughts, but this was exactly Crane and Scarecrow's situation. Just because Crane had taken a bump on the head and was dead to the world didn't mean Scarecrow had been thus affected. This fissure between them had, in the past, allowed Scarecrow to move Crane's sleeping body in front of the TV so he could watch all the ridiculous, filthy and idiotic programming Crane hated. Now it would be put to better use than covert viewings of _Maury_.

By taking control of the body, Scarecrow also took on all the pain associated with waking up after a severe blow to the head. He was no stranger to terrible pain—he'd been tased in the face and punched by Batman—but what he felt as he opened his eyes was debilitating. Scarecrow's plan to leap up and massacre Joe proved impractical. He hurt so much even thinking about murder made him want to moan.

Moving with all the speed and dexterity of a crippled sloth, Scarecrow dragged himself toward the table. He needed something solid to hold onto while he pulled his sorry, beaten carcass off the ground. He also needed his face back. Johnny, the prissy little erstwhile doctor, had felt the need to remove his mask. Now Scarecrow had to retrieve it. He felt, not naked, but uncomfortable without it; to Scarecrow, it was far more than a crudely sewn burlap bag.

With the tape cut from Joe's chest, Danielle moved on to his arms. There, she encountered a problem she should have foreseen. Joe's arms and hands were terrible, bloody messes. If she wasn't incredibly careful with her cuts, she was going to hurt him. Danielle had a sick feeling that, even if she was as delicate as possible, she would inadvertently cause him more pain.

"Why'd you stop?" Joe asked.

"You're all messed up," Danielle replied.

"That's not news. I've always been messed up. Ask my kindergarten teacher."

He was too wonderful to deserve what he'd had to endure. Despite it all—the kidnapping, the pain, the mental and physical torture—Joe still kept his sense of humor. Danielle didn't know whether to laugh at the cabbie's joke, or cry at the unfairness of it all.

"Your hands, I don't want to hurt them anymore. And where he cut your arm and shot you, there's a lot of tape there," Danielle said.

"Don't worry about that. I just knocked heads with a mad scientist. I seriously doubt anything short of cutting off my arms is going to hurt as bad as my head does right now," Joe said.

Not exactly strengthened by Joe's words, Danielle began to work at the tape gingerly. Just because Joe had a high pain tolerance, that was no reason to actually inflict pain on him if it could be avoided. Danielle figured she had done more than enough to hurt Joe, and she wouldn't do it again.

"I wish we had the keys to these handcuffs. He's probably got them in his pocket, but I don't think I could search him. He's creepy," Danielle said.

"Get this tape off me and I'll find the keys. The son of a bitch, he's got the keys for my cab, too. I'm not leaving my baby here so the damned Scarecrow can ride around in it," Joe said.

Danielle chuckled. "Your baby?"

"Yeah, I depend on that car for my livelihood. I don't drive, I don't eat. I'm really affectionate with it and I make sure it's always spotless. You think that's weird?"

"Not really. I named my car."

"Okay, _that's_ weird."

Talking about trivialities like their beloved vehicles calmed them and steadied Danielle's hands. She was by no means ready to become a surgeon, but she managed to slice through the tape without slicing the skin underneath. With a few more controlled cuts, Joe would be able to freely move his arms—with the exception of the limitations the handcuffs placed on him—for the first time in hours.

"Does your finger hurt? The one he broke, I mean. It's not…straight," Danielle said. Her stomach performed increasingly intricate aerobatic acts the longer she looked at Joe's finger. The comfort she'd been able to gleam from their easy conversation seemed to evaporate.

"I hardly even feel it, which probably isn't such a good sign. I can fix it, though. I've dislocated my fingers a good dozen times. One time, I dislocated three at once. Probably a world record," Joe said.

"Jeez, Joe, how'd you survive this long?"

Scarecrow, still creeping at a pace a snail would have been ashamed of, finally made it to the table. Now it was just a matter of hauling himself up, grabbing his mask, and bringing well-deserved doom to Joe and Danielle. Never, in all his days, had a test subject ever managed to turn the tables on him. Scarecrow burned with embarrassment and rage. He'd make sure they paid.

Revenge later. Climbing what seemed to be a nearly insurmountable distance came first. Scarecrow looked up at the ledge of the table and it seemed very far away. It gave him the same feeling looking up at the sky and seeing the moon did: the feeling that there was no way in Hell he'd ever be able to reach what he was seeing. The moon sometimes depressed Scarecrow.

If he wasn't so pissed off, he might have just laid on the floor, given up control of the body, and faded back into Crane's mind. His head hurt so badly he wanted morphine and the table ledge was taunting him with its distance. Silently cursing, Scarecrow accepted the ledge's challenge and went for it.

Gripping the table leg for support, Scarecrow pulled himself into a sitting position. The world spun and he came dangerously close to passing out. Pure willpower—and his lust for revenge—kept him conscious. There'd be time to sprawl out and act like a corpse later.

Unaware of what was transpiring behind her back as Scarecrow crept closer to his goal, Danielle finished cutting the tape that secured Joe's arms. She supposed her job was now half done. Joe's upper half was free and she wouldn't have to be quite as careful with his legs. They'd fared quite a bit better than his hands had.

"We're making progress," Danielle said.

"Great, I love progress."

Detective Stephens loved progress, too. Only he didn't seem to be making much. His partner was probably off having phone sex instead of tracking down the cell's location. Without a location to bring the fury of the GCPD down on, Stephens and his fellow officers were left waiting.

Even worse than the waiting was the incessant voice in his ear. Stephens wanted to hang up his phone, but his police training didn't allow it. He had to keep the suspect busy, keep him from moving to a new location or turning off his phone. If only the goddamn suspect would stop telling him such sick things.

"Detective, I've never seen a happy police officer. Not in real life, and not on television: I haven't seen a television in some time, either, but I doubt if I missed many happy cops. It's a thankless profession, isn't it? No matter what you do, it is never enough. If you stop one robbery, another takes place down the street. If you prevent one murder, another man dies somewhere else. Does the despair weigh on you, detective?"

"No, I'm immune to stress, despair, all that bullshit," Stephens responded.

"You don't sound immune to any of those things, detective. I can hear it in your voice. How long have you been up?"

"Almost twenty-four hours," the detective said before he could think up a smarter answer.

"A whole day, detective. And what did you accomplish in that time?"

Stephens was a good man, an honest cop. Even when things had been bad, when the department had been saturated from top to bottom with corruption, Stephens had held his morals dear. He hadn't taken bribes or made evidence disappear. He was able to sleep at night and face himself in the mirror every morning. He'd been proud of what he did and still was.

So why couldn't he tell this psychopath to go screw an electrical outlet and be done with it? Why was he still listening to the scumbag ask his weird questions and make his insinuations? And where the hell was his partner? Damn it already!

"Your silence speaks volumes, detective."

"I found your ass, and that's a pretty good start to my night," Stephens said.

"No, you didn't find me. You carried on a phone conversation with me. You _plan_ to find me, but you haven't yet. I hope you do, though, detective. I want to meet you."

"I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon. I'll be the guy slapping cuffs on your murdering ass," the cop said.

"And I'll be the one sliding the knife across your throat."

There was no polite way to respond to that. Ignoring his training, Stephens terminated the call. He'd wait in silence for his partner.

His partner chose just that moment to appear, a sheet of paper in his hand and a triumphant grin on his face.

"Jerry, we've got a hell of a good trace on the phone. Uh, Jerry, is something wrong? Shit, don't tell me somebody called in and reported a dead body."

Stephens supposed he must have had one hell of a strange look on his face, so he shook his head. "No, no dead bodies. Where's the phone?"

With cell phones, it was nearly impossible to establish their exact location. While a landline could be tracked to a specific house, a mobile phone's location could only be estimated. That estimation was usually very accurate, within 300 feet or so. Stephens hoped his new psycho-killer friend wouldn't decide to leave the area, though it seemed unlikely.

"I know how much you love the Narrows, so I've got good news," the cop said.

Detective Stephens sighed but wasn't surprised. An insane serial killer couldn't exactly be living in Bruce Wayne's backyard. The Narrows was a haven for all sorts of degenerates.

"Alright, let's get to it."

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From my research, I discovered that the FCC's Enhanced 911 Location Capability Rule made it mandatory for wireless networks to be able to estimate a cell phone's location within 328 feet of its actual location. Tracking a phone usually takes between 20 and 30 minutes.


	20. I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up

Thanks for all the reviews. Seeing as how I am still alive to write this, I suppose nobody squealed to Chuck Norris about my previous comments. Thank you for that, too.

I hate to ask for reviews, but if you'd be kind enough to grace me with four more, this story will surpass _Nerd_ and become my most reviewed fic. I will love you special reviewers even more than I already do!

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Thomas Schiff discovered the extent of his endurance when his legs gave out beneath him and, in mere seconds, he went from sprinting to sprawled out on the sidewalk. In the fall, he scraped his knees, elbows and palms to hamburger. When he tried to regain his feet, he discovered he could hardly move. Standing was out of the picture.

As he lay on the ground, his numerous scrapes stinging, Schiff realized just how hard he was panting. He was on the verge of hyperventilating. Alongside his over-stressed lungs, the schizophrenic's heart hammered madly from both fear and exertion. His body, not used to doing anything more difficult than shouting at the television, had been pushed beyond its abilities.

He had to get out of there. He had to get back to Dr. Crane. He had to sleep. He had to drink something before he got dehydrated and died. He had to make sure that crazy hobo with the knife still wasn't chasing him. He had to never make Scarecrow angry ever again. He had to stand up. He had to remain seated until the ride came to a full and complete stop. He had to floss more often. He had to accept Nancy Grace did not think he was special. He had-

He had to get his mind and body back under his control. Wrangling his thoughts was by no means an easy task, but by concentrating Schiff was able to at least prioritize his to-do list. Nancy Grace, as much as Thomas liked watching her yell and scowl at the criminality in America, wasn't particularly important right then. Making sure the hobo hadn't followed him and wasn't creeping up on him was more vital.

After struggling like an overturned tortoise, Schiff managed to roll over onto his back. He was not stabbed to death. Nobody assaulted him. There appeared to be no one around, as far as he could see from his awkward angle.

With more effort, Schiff struggled up into a sitting position. He was able to look around easier and get a more panoramic view. There were still no knife-wielding maniacs in the vicinity, so Thomas deemed himself safe from that particular threat. All he had to do now was figure out where he was and how to get back to Dr. Crane so he could report the successful and nearly fatal disposal of the cell phone.

Taking a few more minutes to steady his breathing and slow his heart down, Schiff scanned the area from his seated position. He took note of a very large, filthy puddle just in front of him and was quite happy he hadn't fallen in there, as he might have either drowned or contracted cholera and then died. Some garbage cans—each upended and its contents strewn all over—sat nearby. A rat roughly the size of a dachshund skittered among the alley trash. Schiff wondered briefly if the rat was a carrier of bubonic plague and decided he did not want to find out.

Motivated by the diseased vermin, Schiff got to his feet. He was unsteady and nearly lurched into the horrendously dirty puddle and all the waterborne pathogens it no doubt contained. Right before splashdown, he managed to stumble a little to the left and avoided soaking his shoe and bare sock.

He had to get back to Dr. Crane. To do that, he had to establish where he was. He could remember his home's street address. Unfortunately, that was nearly all he knew. His mental map of the Narrows was so porous it was more hole than map, and many of the street signs in this part of Gotham were either missing or spray-painted over. The only way Schiff would find his way home was with incredible luck and a lot of walking.

Sighing at the size of the task awaiting him, Schiff skirted around the puddle and began to walk. He hoped Dr. Crane would forgive him for taking so long. If he made it back only to be attacked by Scarecrow, he honestly just wanted to die.

As his schizophrenic houseguest randomly explored the foul streets of the Narrows, Scarecrow came ever closer to his goal. The table ledge no longer seemed as distant as the moon. If he was careful and kept a one-handed hold on the table leg for support, Scarecrow was reasonably sure he could grab the ledge and pull himself up.

Wishing he had more upper body strength, Scarecrow clung to the ledge and slowly dragged himself off the floor. His legs finally got in on the act and stopped pretending they were made of mush. He was able to stand with the table's aid, although he was so shaky it appeared today was his first day as a biped.

Hard part's done. He'd gotten to his feet without blacking out, falling on his ass, or alerting his soon-to-be-dead test subjects to his miraculous resurrection. All he had to do now was reclaim his mask and decide how he wanted to deal with Joe and Danielle.

Danielle was busy working at a particularly excessive area of tape that bound Joe's ankles together. The ridiculous amount of tape would have been funny under lighter circumstances; there really was enough to tie down a rhinoceros. When time was of the essence, though, the duct tape was infuriating.

"You can just screw the tape and cut my pants off there. I don't mind wearing capris," Joe said.

"Men can't wear capris; they look ridiculous," Danielle responded.

"I don't care about looking ridiculous. I survived the fashion horror of the 80's."

"Did you have a Mohawk and tight leather pants?"

"No and no, but I saw plenty of both."

Mercifully, Joe's pants were spared the scalpel. Danielle managed to saw through the resistant tape and now the only thing that separated the cabbie from freedom was a few bands of tape wound around his shoes. Since his shoes fully protected his feet from the blade, Danielle had no qualms about applying more pressure and finishing quickly. She might have nicked Joe's shoes a few times, but if he had lived through the decade of big hair and Michael Jackson jackets, he probably wouldn't care too much.

The last loops of duct tape were defeated and Danielle whooped in victory. She dropped the scalpel and raised her arms in a celebratory cheer. She'd done it! She'd beaten back her squeamishness, she'd cut off enough duct tape to stretch all the way from the Earth to Mars, and she'd finally been of some use to Joe.

"I take it I'm free?" Joe asked.

"Yes, now let's get the hell out of here!"

Joe opened his eyes and was greeted with the sight he'd been dreading. The Scarecrow had risen and he did not look happy.

"For Christ's sake," Joe muttered.

"What's wrong? Did your legs go to sleep? Can you move them?" Danielle asked.

"Turn around very slowly," Joe said.

Suddenly uneasy, Danielle did as told. She felt her stomach flip when she saw the Scarecrow. It wasn't fair, damn it! It was not fair!

Scarecrow picked up his mask and pulled it down over his head. As soon as he did this, Joe recoiled in violent horror, falling out of his chair and landing hard on his already tortured hand. His previously numb dislocated finger suddenly flared with unwelcome pain. Though Joe didn't know it, he'd inadvertently popped the joint back into place. Unfortunately, repairing a dislocated joint was sometimes even more painful than the actual dislocation.

He welcomed the light scratchiness of the rough fabric against his face. It was comforting and enticing, like a lover's familiar touch. Scarecrow smiled and the maddening throb of his migraine died away a little. His legs were steadier and he now had no trouble supporting himself. With his proper face restored, everything seemed a little brighter.

Now that he was truly Scarecrow, Crane's face hidden away, he could make his test subjects pay for so humiliating and injuring him. Scarecrow gave the briefcase a quick once-over; he was as familiar with its contents as Crane was. He just had to decide what methods of death best suited the troublesome little lab rats.

Briefly, Scarecrow considered shooting them both; Danielle in the head and Joe somewhere significantly lower. He scratched that idea almost instantly. He certainly wasn't in the mood to scrub down an entirely white room that had been so splattered with blood it looked like the canvas of a Jackson Pollock action painting. Besides the mess factor, guns were too quick to give him proper satisfaction. The initial bang was very nice and exciting, but then there was nothing to look forward to.

If he wasn't going to shoot them, Scarecrow faced a dilemma. He was in no shape to get in close and physically fight with or restrain Danielle and Joe. Much to his displeasure, Scarecrow noticed Joe had been released from duct tape jail, and his scalpel had been commandeered to do the dirty work. Said scalpel rested inches from Danielle's shoes, well within range if she wanted to grab it and use it against its rightful owner. No, the risk of approaching them was much too high.

At least the damned cabbie appeared to be incapacitated. Before he'd been headbutted into unconsciousness, Crane must have injected at least a little fear toxin into the stubborn bastard. Scarecrow fervently hoped Joe was suffering horrible terror.

On the subject of fear, Scarecrow finally realized the solution to his problem. It was sitting right in front of him. Back in the good old days, when Crane held a respectable position at Arkham, he'd always been cautious when it came to transporting his toxic compound. Scarecrow might have called it paranoid—none of the doctors, let alone the gorillas the asylum hired as security, were smart enough to suspect Crane of experimenting on his patients with a potentially lethal drug—but Crane had always been secretive to the extreme about his fear toxin. To ensure the drug was never found on his person or his personal effects should he be searched, Crane had modified his briefcase. No one but he—and a collection of insane Arkham patients—knew that what appeared to be a simple satchel was actually a dangerous weapon. Pressing one button would trigger a spray of hallucinogenic gas.

Scarecrow considered now a good time to press the button. He reached for the briefcase, meaning to turn it towards his rats, but was forced to still his hands.

"Don't touch anything in there! Get away from it!" Danielle said.

She'd picked up the scalpel as soon as she'd seen the Scarecrow's interest in the briefcase. Nothing good had come out of that case yet, and she doubted if anything ever would. It was like Pandora's Box, and increasingly horrible things emerged the longer it was left open.

"Are you proposing to threaten me with _my_ scalpel? Maybe if your hand wasn't shaking so much, I'd be worried. Put it down before you cut yourself," Scarecrow said.

Danielle tried to steady her quaking hand. She failed miserably.

There was no way the idiot woman would make a move against him. Confident of this, Scarecrow reached for the briefcase again. Before he could touch it, Danielle struck out with the blade. Scarecrow withdrew his hand with a hiss.

The bitch had actually cut him! The wound was shallow, hardly breaking the skin, but it was the principle that mattered. Scarecrow snarled; he was done playing nicely.

"You actually managed to draw blood; not bad for a hematophobe. I should congratulate you." Scarecrow extended his hand towards Danielle.

A solitary drop of blood fell from the Scarecrow's hand, splattering on the stainless steel surface of the table. Danielle stumbled back a step, her grip on the scalpel going slack. The blade started to slide out of her grasp.

"Hold it together. You lose your head, we're done. You can do it. Show this nutty bastard what you're made of."

Danielle jerked, startled by the words. She turned her head and saw that Joe had managed to pick himself up off the floor. He was cradling his maimed hand and looked dangerously wobbly on his feet, but he was standing and offering his support. Danielle felt her courage rise, her hand tightened on the scalpel and she turned back to face the Scarecrow.

"Get away from the briefcase and-"

With a quick flick of his wrist, Scarecrow sent a fine rain of blood droplets towards Danielle. She cringed, horrified of getting the madman's blood on her. She was not quite fast enough to avoid the blood, and the drops flecked on her shirt and face.

Her resolve broke. Danielle dropped the scalpel and scrubbed furiously at the blood on her face. The fact that she was wearing someone else's bodily fluids was repulsive enough; because it was the Scarecrow's blood, her horror and disgust were expounded.

As she brought her hands away from her face, Danielle realized exactly how deep she was now buried. She was standing in front of the Scarecrow with no weapons and nothing but a narrow table separating them. Though his face was hidden beneath burlap, Danielle knew he was wearing a broad, evil grin.

"The power of fear triumphs again."

Before Danielle could retreat, Scarecrow's bloody hand shot forward and snagged a handful of her hair. She yelped in surprise and pain as he pulled on her hair, forcing her forward until her thighs were firmly against the table. The pressure and agony in her scalp was severe enough to bring involuntary tears to her eyes.

"You have been a naughty, naughty girl. Playing with sharp objects and not following the doctor's orders," Scarecrow said.

Danielle shrieked when he gave her hair a sadistic yank. Joe shouted in outrage and took a step towards the Scarecrow and his helpless victim. He listed dangerously to the left and nearly ended up on his ass. To avoid falling, he was forced the grab the back of the chair for support.

"Don't worry, though. You can make it all up to me by doing one simple thing." With his bandaged hand, Scarecrow spun the briefcase around. If Danielle's vision hadn't been reduced to a blur by the tears that filled her eyes, she would have finally seen all of the case's dreadful contents.

Scarecrow felt for the inconspicuous button and rested his finger against it. Danielle wriggled, trying desperately to free herself from the Scarecrow's grip. He gave her hair another sharp tug to still her.

"Ready to face your fears?" Scarecrow taunted.

"No!" Danielle sobbed.

"Too bad." He pressed the button. There was a sharp hiss and the air surrounding him and his prey suddenly become inhospitable.

"Deep breaths, now. Don't drag out the inevitable."

Inevitable or not, Danielle held her breath. She'd never been a smoker and Seattle's air wasn't exactly the smoggy hell of Los Angeles, so her lung capacity was slightly above normal. However, a few extra seconds of oxygen would do her little good. She was like a fish on a line, firmly hooked and unable to escape no matter how hard she thrashed.

"That, my silly rat, _is_ dragging out the inevitable. Why make it worse for yourself? Shall I help you?" Scarecrow asked.

Danielle was not about to respond. Scarecrow interpreted her silence as consent and 'helped'. He gave her hair another fierce yank and she gasped despite her best efforts to keep her mouth shut.

One breath's worth of poison was enough to trigger the reaction. Danielle started coughing violently, inadvertently sucking in huge gulps of toxic air. The fear toxin entered her bloodstream and within seconds wreaked havoc on her mind, destroying every conscious thought and replacing it with insane terror.

She began to scream.

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	21. Life is a Dumpster

I knew I could depend on you lovely people. You all did wonderfully and this story is now the supreme review ruler among my fics. Hugs and love and virtual party favors all around! Hell, let's throw in a vuvuzela or two and make it a real party!

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There was no sound worse than the high, keening wail of a woman in terrible distress. It pierced Joe like a cold knife, making him shudder. Every instinct he possessed demanded he do something, _anything_, to stop that awful noise and help the person making it. He couldn't stand there, clutching the back of a chair, when those almost inhuman cries were coming from Danielle. He had to act.

He couldn't; there was not one thing he could do. That voluminous cloud of poison obstructed Danielle and her insane tormentor, turning them both into shadows in the toxic fog. Joe realized trying to enter the gas cloud and pull Danielle out would only result in him being driven as mad as she was. His own feet would hardly support him; there was no way he'd be able to stumble into the gas, pull her out, and avoid either falling or being cold-cocked by the Scarecrow.

Worse yet, the cloud was expanding and heading his way. Joe had no idea how dispersed fear toxin had to be before it lost its effectiveness, but he was pretty sure he was still in the danger zone. Tendrils of poison reached for him and he had no choice but to back-pedal. He'd retreat to the wall—always assuming his first step didn't end with him on the floor—and then he'd have no choice but to wait and see if he was reduced to screaming, too. If he was, at least he and Danielle would suffer together. If he wasn't, he'd try to think of something.

Joe took a tentative step, still clutching the back of the chair. His legs nearly buckled but decided at the last second to hold firm. Making it to the wall without collapsing seemed about as likely as the Scarecrow denouncing his evil ways and offering to pay for his victims' medical bills. Maybe it would be easier to stay where he was and take his chances with the poisonous smoke.

And maybe it would be easier to lie back down on the ground, close his eyes, and wait for the Scarecrow to finish him off. Easier, certainly, but stupid beyond belief. Joe wasn't ready to take a passive stance with his life, sanity, or death just yet. He still had some fight in him, if only so he could keep his promise to Danielle and get her out alive.

Taking tiny, shuffling steps that suggested he was either riddled with arthritis or the recent recipient of a hip replacement, the cabbie backed away from the support of the chair. His head and hand throbbed mercilessly, and even the slow movement of his feet caused worse pain to flare up in his abused body parts. Managing less than fifteen feet in reverse was hardly easier than attempting to run a marathon in hundred-degree heat.

As Joe did his best to avoid the fear-inducing mist, a scene of horror played out in the dark heart of the obscuring cloud. Scarecrow maintained his grip on Danielle's hair; if he were to let her go, she'd try to run from him. He didn't feel up to a lively chase at the moment, so he kept his new shrieking toy close at hand.

"You've got quite the set of lungs on you, my little lab rat. I could listen to your screams all day," Scarecrow said.

Unwillingly satisfying his sinister desires, Danielle shrieked again. If Scarecrow had been a cat, he would have started purring. The screams were so earnest and beautiful, almost like a song. Scarecrow knew he was lucky to have such a well-tuned and lovely instrument writhing in his grasp.

While everything was wonderful to Scarecrow, for Danielle the experience was nothing short of her private version of hell. She couldn't turn her head very far due to the fistful of her hair the Scarecrow clutched and used like a leash, but what she could see was almost too horrible to comprehend. Certainly, it was too horrible to bear in silence, and she continued to thrash and scream in a mindless attempt to break free.

Danielle's eyes were leveled with the Scarecrow's chest, and from what she saw, he was soaked with blood. Danielle knew it wasn't his own—there was simply no way for a person to be covered in that much blood and remain standing if he was the fluid's rightful owner—and she doubted if it was only the blood from one person. It seemed like all the day's gore from a busy slaughterhouse had been dumped on the mad doctor's head.

Ignoring the damage he was doing to her hair—not to mention the skin the hair sprouted from—Scarecrow yanked Danielle's head upward. People tended to have the strongest reactions when they got a good look at the mask, and if the woman was screaming like that over his suit, Scarecrow was positive he'd soon be getting even better reactions from her. Perhaps he had been a little too quick in dismissing Danielle in favor of Joe the never-ending wellspring of sarcasm and annoyance. She was actually a great source of fun and nowhere near as irksome or resilient.

Somewhere in her overturned mind, Danielle remembered Joe's reactions to the Scarecrow's mask. He'd been under the influence of a weaker concentration of fear toxin, and he'd still been too horrified and revolted to keep his eyes open. She could not look upon the transmogrified mask; it would drive her insane.

Oblivious to the horrendous pain in her scalp, Danielle began to struggle with a fresh intensity. She pulled back, digging her sneakers into the floor and straining every muscle in her legs, back, shoulders and neck in an attempt to pull free. Desperation loaned her strength and a temporary immunity to pain; with this added rush, Danielle almost turned the tide.

"No you don't. Behave yourself or I will give you something to be truly terrified of," Scarecrow warned.

The Scarecrow's warning was unheard and unheeded. Danielle continued to strain against the Scarecrow like an over-excited dog trying to pull its master off his feet. The chemicals her panicking body dumped into her bloodstream made up for the advantages—height and evil insanity—Scarecrow held over her. They were equally matched, Danielle pouring all her strength into escape and the Scarecrow using all of his to keep her under control.

"Enough of this," Scarecrow muttered.

With one all-or-nothing burst of power, Scarecrow snapped Danielle's head upwards. She froze for a moment, staring at his face with comically large and almost bulging eyes. Then she screamed as only those truly out of their minds can scream.

His clothing, awash with blood, was enough to send her into shrieking fits. But his _face_, by God, his face was enough to drive the sanity from her mind.

Just as his body had been thoroughly drenched with blood, his face was likewise drowned. The burlap mask, surely lacking any sort of vein or artery, bled nonetheless. Red streamed from the fabric, dripping like a macabre waterfall onto the Scarecrow's clothing.

His test subject howling mindlessly, her escape attempts stilled, Scarecrow declared himself the victor. He grinned at the sweet sound of unadulterated human misery and terror. Then he decided to see if he couldn't make it just a little bit sweeter.

"Are you _scared_?" the Scarecrow taunted.

Danielle, just as Joe had, also saw the burlap mask open into a mouth it did not really possess. Instead of a black pit occupied by a parasitic sea louse, Danielle saw the mouth as a wet, ragged hole, like the exit wound created by a hollow-point bullet. Every time the Scarecrow spoke, a fine mist of blood was exhaled along with his words. The more the Scarecrow talked, the shriller Danielle screamed.

Joe felt the wall against his back and reached it not a moment too soon. Danielle's screams affected him deeply; hell, they kicked the shit out of him, emotionally. Only a complete sadist, incapable of sympathizing in any way with another human being, could hear those cries and not feel pity. Joe had the added weight of not only feeling pity, but feeling like a complete and utter failure. He was here, slumped against the wall like an invalid, and she was there, going out of her mind with only that demented son of a bitch for company.

"You bastard, you bastard, you rotten, cowardly bastard! Stop it!"

The shout barely registered with Scarecrow. He was so enthralled with watching Danielle's face contort that Joe's swearing sounded distant and unimportant. It was only when the cabbie began bellowing like an angry moose that the burlap man paid him attention.

"What do you want, idiot? I'm enjoying myself. Shut up."

"You spineless, gutless asshole, leave her alone! Whatever you're doing to her, stop it. What kind of a man are you, anyway? Pulling hair? What teenage girl taught you how to fight?"

Scarecrow scowled. His elation was swirling down the drain and he was not ready to let the negativity back in. If that trilobite of a cabbie thought he could help the woman by acting like a horse's ass, he had a whole world of hurt heading his way.

The cloud of toxin was dissipating, and Joe could make out more than the shadowy outline of the Scarecrow. If he could see the freak, the freak could see him. Joe raised his relatively unharmed hand and flipped the one-finger salute to the Scarecrow. If the freak could see Joe, he could also see his middle finger.

"Here's my message to you, your fighting tactics and your bullshit scary poison. Stop hurting a defenseless woman and try your luck with me. I told you I'd tear your mask off and make you eat it, and I intend to," Joe said.

"You can hardly stand, let alone challenge me. Sit down and be quiet."

"Screw you and the horse you rode in on."

"I think you should watch her go insane before you die. How do you like that idea? Just listen to her; it's the very distillation of human suffering. A person can't make a sound like that for very long before something vital inside…snaps," Scarecrow said.

"I'll snap your arm off and hit you with it."

The Scarecrow knew there was no logic in arguing with Joe. He simply would not shut up, no matter what he was threatened with or told to do. Luckily, Scarecrow knew another approach that had worked wonders in the past. The cabbie was selfless to the point of suicide when it came to the woman. To silence Joe, Danielle had to get even louder.

Scarecrow leaned down and forced Danielle to crane her head back. At such a close range, her screams were almost painfully loud, but still enjoyable. The doctor's dark half doubted if Danielle found anything about the experience enjoyable and couldn't force himself to care about his experiment's feelings.

"Joe won't do as he's told, Danielle. That's a very foolish mistake, isn't it? You should always listen to your attending physician. Otherwise, unfortunate consequences can arise."

Their faces nearly touching, Danielle was given a close-up look at the gory cavern that served as the mask's mouth. With only inches separating them, the bloody mist that unnatural mouth exhaled had only one place to go. With every sentence Scarecrow spoke, more dots of red condensed on Danielle's starkly pale face. The spots of blood stood out like flaming freckles.

The more exhaled blood that collected on her face like moisture on a window pane, the more Danielle's sanity slipped. She was wearing her worst fear; it was beginning to run down her face in thin streaks. Her tormentor—a monster that seemed to be composed of little except blood and burlap—kept shoving her closer to the edge of the precipice. At the rate she was retreating, the fall was inevitable and it would happen soon.

"It's terribly inconsiderate of him, isn't it, to do this to you? All he has to do is give up. That's not so much to ask. In my humble opinion, it seems like a small price to pay for easing your fear," Scarecrow said.

Joe's legs gave out and he slid to the floor. It appeared his body had been convinced by the Scarecrow and was surrendering. His brain knew the burlap bastard was full of shit—the Scarecrow would keep up the torture and eventually kill them both no matter what Joe did—but he was physically too tired to resist. His head spun, his mutilated hand was unbearable to live with, his face—slashed hours ago—continued to sting, and he was exhausted. Joe could never remember being so tired in his life. He felt like he'd been up for a week, and any rest—including the eternal kind—was beginning to look more inviting than another faceoff with the Scarecrow.

The cabbie let his head droop forward like a wilting flower. It was a clear sign of defeat, but he lacked the energy to keep his head held high. He was drained, he hurt in ways he never imagined he could hurt, and he still somehow had to keep his word. Once he did that, he could die happy. But not before Danielle was safe; he had to rescue her, he'd promised. He needed a plan.

He needed a plan. The killer was clever—avoiding a one-way ticket back to Arkham required at least _some_ brains—and he knew how to scheme when he needed to. Now was one of those times. In a very short while, he was going to have company. He had to be ready to offer them all a proper greeting.

Zsasz looked at the two items he held. In his right hand, he held the knife he'd used to nearly slash Schiff's throat. In his left hand, he held the cell phone that had so strangely ended up in his possession. Both the knife and phone would come in handy.

His new detective friend—who had hurt Zsasz deeply by hanging up on him in the middle of their invigorating discussion—would no doubt be looking for the phone. The phone, therefore, would be the perfect bait. It was a simple rule of hunting: to find the animal you were seeking, you needed the right lure.

Knowing his prey would be along shortly, the killer looked for the best place to set the bait. The alley he currently inhabited offered plenty of dark crevices and potential hiding places. Zsasz considered the various shadowy enclaves and finally decided on the perfect spot to wait in ambush for his game.

A dumpster not even the most desperate hobo would inhabit offered its services. The giant garbage bin reeked like a few thousand pounds of fish left to rot in the sun and a healthy swarm of flies buzzed from within it. Hoping an enormous rat wouldn't spring from the dumpster and latch onto his face, Zsasz cracked open the dumpster's lid. The stench that rolled out nearly killed him.

Before he could succumb to the toxic stink, Zsasz pitched the phone into the trash. He then let the lid slam shut. Nearly gagging at the lingering reek, the killer hurried to the side of the dumpster and hid. He pressed his back against the alley wall and tried to focus on anything except the enormous metal box of deadly odors that served as his hunting blind.

For the first time in a great many years, Zsasz felt something approaching pity. It wasn't pity over the death or deaths he planned to soon cause. It was pity over the awful smell some poor cop would have to endure before his life was ended. Nobody deserved to breathe in whatever horror that dumpster held.

Despite his pity, Zsasz stuck to the plan. He would lie in wait like a tiger until an officer stumbled across the phone in the dumpster. When the cop lifted the lid to retrieve the phone—always assuming the reek didn't suffocate him—Zsasz would strike. If the cop was his detective, they'd have another little chat; if it wasn't, well, at least the officer wouldn't feel much.

Until he heard the sirens and the slow, cautious footsteps coming his way, there would be nothing to do but wait. Wait, and try not to breathe through his nose.

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Hm. I may have underestimated the number of remaining chapters... Good news, everyone! My brain is wordy.


	22. Ready to Rumble

Thank you for the reviews! I enjoyed them all immensely. Know that your reviews make me squee with great joy.

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Detective Stephens' phone-hunting group was an eclectic but surprisingly promising collection of cops. He briefed his group, careful to stress how dangerous the situation was and how he did _not_ want to be comforting anyone's widow or next of kin, before they set out. Stephens' partner stayed close to the veteran detective as they headed for their car.

"Jerry, uh, this Scarecrow guy...what are the chances we're actually gonna be seeing him tonight? I mean, do you think he teamed up with this Zsasz guy and they're working together? See, I'm wondering this because of the whole fear shtick and-"

"You're scared shitless of bees. Everyone knows that; half the squad saw how you reacted when that wasp was loose. You almost pulled your gun on it," Stephens said.

"That thing was _huge_. And I'm allergic. I get stung, my throat could swell up and I could die within minutes. Minutes, you got that?"

"You keep sweating about bees, and you're not going to notice the crazy bastard with the knife or the gun creeping up behind you. If I see the Scarecrow, or any bees, I'll make sure you're the first person to know."

"Jerry, you deserve a medal or something, you know that?"

"Yeah, Benson, I know it. Now stop dragging your feet. We haven't got all night. I'd like to have at least one sicko off the streets before morning, and that doesn't leave us much time."

Thomas Benson might not have been the greatest detective to ever patrol Gotham, but at least he wasn't boring. He believed it was fate that had paired him—a Tom—up with a Jerry. No less than thirty times a day, he made references to the old cat-and-mouse cartoon and each and every time he was shot down by his partner. Benson was, after months of blank looks, beginning to think Detective Stephens had never watched TV in his youth, and that was just sad beyond measure. One of these weekends, when Stephens didn't look so grumpy, Benson intended to invite him over for a marathon session of _Tom and Jerry_ on DVD.

As he took his place in the passenger's seat, Benson began to hope that maybe this weekend would be the weekend Stephens lost his permanent scowl. If they did manage to apprehend either of the two psychos they were after, that was bound to put his partner in a brighter mood. As much as Detective Benson was not looking forward to meeting the infamous Scarecrow, he was pretty sure he could do it if it meant his friend stopped looking like he was attending a 24 hour, seven-day-a-week funeral.

Benson was, by nature, a talker. He hated silence, and did his best to fill it with anything he could. Though they'd barely been on the road for four minutes, Benson decided to get his partner involved in conversation.

"Why do you think all these nuts are running around in costumes? I mean, it's getting weirder. First it was the Scarecrow, then the clown, and suddenly there's a heap of them. What do you think about that Firefly? I wish I could have been there to see his flamethrower explode. That must have been something."

Stephens gave a non-committal grunt. The last thing he wanted to talk about was the mass outbreak of Spandex and tacky outfits. He missed the good old days, when the only thing you had to worry about was getting shot. Now you had to watch out for chemical weapons, clowns carrying bazookas, and bugs armed with fire.

"Can you imagine what that must have looked like? You walk in on a perp, he's dressed up like Mothra, and he's got a homemade flamethrower! What would possess someone to do something so weird?"

"Mental illness," Stephens replied.

Benson considered it for a second and the nodded. Yes, mental illness certainly would make someone act crazy.

"If I ever went crazy, I still wouldn't wear Spandex, though. It's not like I wouldn't look good, it's just that I wouldn't want to chafe," Benson said.

Stephens did his best to tune his partner out from that point on. For the most part, he succeeded. He never would have been able to stand his garrulous partner if he hadn't evolved a defense mechanism against Benson's endless and often banal chatter.

Subjected to far worse than images of tight-fitting elastic clothing, Joe could find no peace. With his head down, all he had to look at were the bloodstains on his pants. Those were never coming clean, no matter how much detergent he used. And that sucked, because he'd really liked these pants, he'd had them for three years and he'd been careful never to get too fat to fit into them. His ex-wife had given them to him for Christmas and he must have really been losing it because reminiscing over a cheap pair of trousers was practically bringing tears to his eyes.

Forcing himself to stop being sentimental and neurotic, Joe found the strength to lift his head. He couldn't become a pathetic, sobbing idiot. He simply would not allow it. He could die insane, probably would, actually, but he was not going to die crying over some stained pants. He had more dignity than that.

"Not quite ready to quit?" Scarecrow inquired.

Joe promptly lowered his head and tried to suppress the violent shaking that overcame him. The cloud of vaporous fear had dispersed into the room and no longer provided any kind of smokescreen. With nothing to block his sight of the Scarecrow, Joe had been treated to an awful vision courtesy of the unknown amount of toxin he'd been injected with. The cabbie knew he was hardly getting a taste of whatever Danielle was seeing, but he was too horrified to risk even another peek at the awful entity.

"Tell me, Joe, what are the limits of your generosity?" the Scarecrow asked.

A tremor in his voice, Joe said, "I never give more than twenty dollars to anyone. Twenty's my limit."

"I don't mean in a financial sense. I mean, where do you draw the line when it comes to precious Danielle?"

"I like her, I do, but twenty bucks is twenty bucks."

Scarecrow had allowed Danielle to drop her head so she would turn down the volume on her screams. Now he began to reel her gaze back up so she'd be confronted by his bloody visage once more. Joe got the message and the threat and unplugged the sarcasm. One of his last and best defense mechanisms was now offline.

"I'll ask you again. What would you be unwilling to give up in return for me releasing her?"

"Not one thing. I know you're screwing with my head, but I'll play along. There isn't one thing you can take that I wouldn't give."

"You're so selfless I want to puke. Anyone that stupid deserves to die in agony."

"Go ahead and puke; I hope you choke on it and die. Better men than you went out that way."

So much for losing the sarcasm. Joe wondered if maybe he wasn't secretly a masochist; he was certainly going out of his way to cause himself untold amounts of pain and suffering.

Instead of being drawn into an idiotic discussion about the various rockers and movie stars who had drowned in their own spew, Scarecrow forged ahead with his questions. Unlike Joe, the Scarecrow had a plan and was now going to implement it. He did not intend to be side-tracked by any of the cabbie's useless gibberish.

"Do you really want to risk her sanity? I can guarantee you, if I force her to look at my face again, she will break. I doubt if there's anyone in this slag-heap of a city who can repair a mind once I've had my way with it," Scarecrow said.

Joe wasn't willing to risk the sanctity of Danielle's mind. His own body and brain, those he was willing to use as pawns, but not another person's. Besides, he had a sneaking suspicion Danielle actually used her brain and would want to continue using it at maximum capacity in the future.

"You know, being so ugly you drive people crazy isn't something to be proud of. I don't know about you, but I wouldn't put it on a résumé," Joe said.

"So you would like to see Danielle go mad. Alright, I can make it happen."

Danielle's cries became shriller and louder as the Scarecrow forced her to lift her head. Joe mentally berated himself for pissing the fiend off, and desperately looked for a way to remedy the situation. He had roughly five seconds to create an award-winning plan before Danielle and the masked sadist locked eyes again.

"You broke your word!"

Scarecrow paused but kept his stranglehold on Danielle's hair. He _had_ indeed poisoned the woman and had thereby nullified Crane's agreement to experiment solely on Joe. For some strange reason—probably apathy—he couldn't force himself to give a damn. Breaking promises made by his more respectable half wasn't exactly going to haunt Scarecrow's conscience or force him to lose any sleep.

"I admit it; I'm a liar. I hardly see why that should offend you so badly, considering everything else I've done to you."

"Fix it, go back to the deal. Leave her alone, at least for now. You want to snap somebody, I volunteer. Do your worst, you sick little geek."

"I don't care about the deal; it's as dead as both of my lab rats will be before long."

"How do you live with yourself? I'm not even talking about the shit you put us through; I'm sure you're not the only whacko nut-job in this city who gets his laughs by torturing people. I'm talking about the things no self-respecting person would ever consider doing. Hurting women, fighting dirty, spitting on your word, those things. You've got no right to call yourself a man. You're scum, you're trash, you're a crazy thug with a crappy gimmick and you should be killed on sight!"

Scarecrow slammed Danielle's head against the table. She howled with pain and he did it again. Joe, horrified at the sudden and senseless brutality, struggled to get to his feet. He would not take such violence sitting down.

"This is exactly how much I care about your opinion of me," Scarecrow said. He accented his sentence by forcing Danielle's face to meet the solid surface of the table a third time.

The three collisions with the table had bloodied Danielle's nose and split her bottom lip. She must have realized she was bleeding, because the timbre of her cries changed dramatically. She went from whimpering to sobbing hysterically.

"Pathetic," Scarecrow spat.

He released Danielle's hair and shoved her away. Danielle stumbled, tripped over her own feet, and collapsed in a messy heap. She made no effort to get up or even to crawl farther from the Scarecrow; instead, she curled into the fetal position as sobs continued to wrack her body.

Joe was at her side in seconds. He had forgotten all about his own injuries and painfully unsteady gait the moment she'd fallen. Little else could have gotten the cabbie to move so quickly and surely given his wretched condition.

Scarecrow walked leisurely around the table and towards his two test subjects. Joe was kneeling next to Danielle but was reluctant to touch her. He had no idea how she'd react, if she'd be comforted or horrified, and he didn't want to risk causing further damage. Danielle was oblivious to Joe's presence, lost in her own dark world. Neither of them knew Scarecrow was going to join them until he laid a hand on Joe's shoulder.

"Look but don't touch. You'll just make her scream again," Scarecrow said.

Joe swatted viciously at the hand perched on his shoulder as though it was an enormous spider that had dropped down onto him. It wasn't just his deep hatred for the Scarecrow that brought on the reaction; even through the barrier of Joe's shirt, the Scarecrow's touch was unbearable. Joe was thoroughly revolted by the hand.

"Get away from us before I-"

"Before you what? Collapse next to her? Could you even stand back up?" Scarecrow asked.

"Let's find out," Joe replied.

It was painful and it was strenuous, but Joe managed to lumber to his feet. The effort the simple act required nearly sapped the last of the cabbie's energy. If he had been ready to pass out and sleep for a few calendar pages before, he was more than ready to hibernate now.

"You're too stupid to know when to quit. Look at you. It would be difficult to watch you suffer if it wasn't so amusing," Scarecrow said.

"I'm still sturdy enough to kick your ass. Come on. I'll show you," Joe said.

Scarecrow smirked and slowly shook his head. "Do you enjoy being put in your place time and time again? If you need another lesson, I would be more than happy to teach you."

"What can I say? I'm a slow learner."

"Don't worry, I'm a patient teacher. I will make the lesson stick in that hollow head of yours."

"I bet it didn't feel too hollow when I was knocking it against yours."

Scarecrow's smirk disappeared. He'd been amused; now he was insulted. It was time to make sure the cabbie learned from his folly.

The hand that had been resting on Joe's shoulder sprung for his face. The startled cabbie jerked back and almost lost his balance. He caught himself just in time. The fight had nearly ended before it began.

"You wanted me to fight like a man? I hope you're prepared to scream like a _woman_," Scarecrow said.

"Just don't pull my hair or hit me with your purse."

Their insults traded and their injured bodies holding together for now, Joe and the Scarecrow squared off. The outcome was difficult to predict. Joe held the physical advantages; he was four inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than his opponent. Unfortunately, that added weight was little good if he couldn't hit the Scarecrow with it. Scarecrow, as scrawny as he'd been his entire life, was quicker on his feet. He'd recovered from the blow to his head much better than Joe had. He was miles from fully restored, but he could maneuver easier than Joe could. The handcuffs that bound Joe's wrists together would slow him down further, make his attacks clumsier and give Scarecrow plenty of time to dodge.

There was one more major disadvantage Joe had to deal with. He couldn't look directly at the Scarecrow without feeling intense panic. It was hard to win a fight when your hands were literally tied and you were almost fighting blind. Though there were no Vegas bookies handy to lay out the odds, Joe doubted he was the crowd favorite.

As the final seconds before the war ticked down, Joe took a quick look at Danielle. She was curled up, still crying and shaking. Her fate—life or death, rescue or damnation—rested on a fight she was oblivious to.

"I promised, Danielle. I promised, and I won't let you down."

"Don't lie to her," Scarecrow chided.

"Shut the hell up and hit me."

Scarecrow happily obliged and it began.

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	23. The Agony of Defeat

All you reviewers have blown me away. I never expected to see 200 reviews, and I thank you for every last one of them. Hugs and fuzzy-warm feelings all around!

Samantha: the reason for those 1's is to separate my little author's notes at the top and/or bottom from the text of the actual story. It's just something I do to keep everything in order and to allow people who don't give a crap about my notes to bypass them and jump right into the chapter.

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As far as hiding places went, this was the worst one he'd ever chosen. In his career as a freelancing killer-for-hire, he'd launched ambushes from some small, cramped and downright bizarre places—closets, bathrooms, car trunks, enormous, bushy potted plants—but none of those places had smelled so bad. The dumpster was like the primordial source of every foul odor known to man, and it was enough to make even a psychotic killer like Victor Zsasz sick to his stomach.

If the police didn't get here soon and begin poking around, Zsasz was going to have no choice but to creep out into some fresher air. Breathing through his mouth and pinching his nose shut wasn't even doing the job. He swore he _tasted_ the rotten reek, no matter what actions he took to block out the stench.

Desperate to take his mind off the dumpster and its putrefied contents, the killer distracted himself with his knife. He liked this particular knife more than most of his past weapons. It was long enough to be intimidating without making him look like Michael Myers or Jason or one of those horror-film hacks. Driving nine inches of finely honed steel into the chest of an unsuspecting victim was one thing; looking like a cheap Wes Craven villain while you were doing it was an entirely different story. Zsasz held nothing but contempt for the nutcases that armed themselves with axes, knock-off samurai swords and machetes. He considered himself a cut or twenty above them and their ridiculous excess, if the pun could be forgiven.

Thinking about two of his favorite things—knives and murder—greatly improved the killer's outlook. Zsasz was able to forget about the nearly lethal dumpster and focus on more positive topics (such as knives and murder) than how badly he was going to need a shower and how difficult procuring a shower would be. He began to think about meeting his phone-friend in real life; he wondered what the detective looked like, how he'd act during their chat, and how he'd act once the knife began to bite. It was all very amusing speculation.

But it wouldn't have to remain speculation for much longer. Far off, faint but unmistakable, a police siren blared. It was a short burst of noise, and as common in Gotham as muggings and pigeons, but it sent shivers of anticipation down the killer's spine.

The siren did not sound again; it had probably only been used to clear an incorrigibly stupid motorist from the police car's path. It would be foolish of the police to announce their location and imminent arrival by leaving the siren on constantly. Zsasz knew his detective wasn't stupid—exhausted and a little short-tempered but not stupid—but he missed the high-pitched, wailing of the siren anyway. He wanted to know exactly when to expect his friends.

Now there were only the ambient sounds of night in the Narrows. Something large—a rat or stray cat most likely—scampered and dug through the trash farther down the alleyway. The swarm of flies continued to buzz merrily in the dumpster. Two men, several blocks away and almost too drunk to stand, shouted absurdly obscene things at each other. Zsasz, as though picking up some strange beat from the overlaying nocturnal noise, began to rhythmically tap his carving knife against his sneaker. The flies droned, the scavenger rustled, the drunks yelled, and Zsasz tapped as he waited.

Inside the Scarecrow's hideout, the night was filled with an entirely different set of sounds. There was Danielle's constant, uneven crying, Joe's sharp, quick breathing and Scarecrow's self-satisfied chuckling. Tension, inaudible but apparent, hung invisibly in the room like high humidity and made the situation even more unpleasant.

"You were so eager for this, for the chance to physically beat me like the drooling Neanderthal you are. Where's your passion at now, hmm?" Scarecrow taunted.

"First things first. I'm a cabbie, not a caveman. You find a Neanderthal who can drive, he can have my job. Secondly, if you'd hold still long enough, I'm sure I'd show some of that passion," Joe replied.

"I don't see how it's my fault you move like a crippled tortoise."

Joe sputtered at the irony of it all. "You don't see how it's your fault? You spent the last however many hours torturing me! It's nobody's fault but yours."

"You asked for it, imbecile. Just like you asked for this."

Scarecrow, not used to brawling but light years better at it than prim and proper Crane could ever hope to be, threw himself at Joe. He was by nature a sneaky, cunning, dirty fighter and keeping it clean was the last thing Scarecrow cared about. He wanted to dominate Joe, prove his utter and total superiority, and leave the cabbie disgraced and in unimaginable pain. Once he'd won, Scarecrow supposed, if he was feeling generous he would put the poor cabbie out of his misery.

Avoiding the usual targets—the head and gut—Scarecrow attacked Joe's hand. It was dangerous, getting that close, but even a light tap on Joe's maimed hand shot bolts of pain throughout his hand and up his arm. Scarecrow's almost birdlike pecks were quick and weak and wouldn't have been very effective against an opponent at full strength. Joe, however, was so far from full strength he'd need a passport to get back there. The constant jabs at his hand and the never-ending jolts of agony that paralyzed him from fingertip to elbow were maddening and were quickly wearing him down.

He couldn't endure for much longer. Joe wasn't quite sure what kept him on his feet, but he was getting pissed off at it for not leaving him alone to die in peace. He did not want to lose in a physical fight to a bony lunatic, but he couldn't seem to help it. The Scarecrow was looking lively; Joe was looking like something that had been scraped up off the side of the highway. He couldn't match the villain's energy and he couldn't even get a hold of the little bastard.

Joe needed to figure something out in the next minute or he was done. He was fighting with more handicaps than anyone could be expected to overcome—fear toxin, handcuffs, previous injuries, exhaustion, probably blood loss—and for all his stubbornness, the obstacles were proving insurmountable. The humiliation of losing a fistfight to a man that looked like he'd never eaten a decent meal in his life was almost too much for Joe to think about. If he couldn't physically knock the crap out of the Scarecrow, Joe just wanted to die so he wouldn't have to deal with the shame.

"Strategizing, are you? Mind if I brew some tea while I wait?" Scarecrow asked.

"Sure, go ahead. Make me a cup while you're at it," Joe said.

"As I said before, I haven't got any food for you. Or any drinks, either."

There went his plan to toss boiling tea in the Scarecrow's face and melt his corneas. Joe couldn't catch any breaks. Everything that could go wrong for him was going wrong.

"Then what do you have for me?" Joe asked, suspecting he'd regret the answer.

"Pain and insanity, shortly followed by death."

"What do you have for me that I might actually _want_?"

"Death."

If the pain and insanity clause could be dropped, Joe wouldn't be entirely against the idea. He had come a long way towards finding peace and acceptance with his mortal demise. The concept of dying didn't scare him anywhere near as badly as the thought of dying without accomplishing what he needed to do first. Once he'd gotten Danielle out—however the hell he was going to do that—then he could die without any guilt. If he died before she was safe, Joe thought there was a small chance he would come back as a ghost, Newtonian physics be damned. Joe wasn't particularly looking forward to an incorporeal eternity.

"No deal," Joe said.

"Then let's go on to the next round," Scarecrow replied. "Just remember the offer."

Careful to avoid Joe's one functioning hand, Scarecrow snuck in close and kicked the cabbie in the knee. Joe's leg buckled and he staggered backwards. His arms desperately reached for some kind of stanchion and found only open air. Unable to keep his balance or get his leg to lock properly and provide support, Joe fell to his knees.

Only two types of people kneel before the villain of a story: the villain's henchmen, and the unlucky prisoners the villain is planning to dispatch in unseemly, gruesome ways. Joe was nobody's henchman, and he wasn't ready to be dispatched, either. Fighting back the stabbing pain in his kicked kneecap, Joe regained his feet.

Scarecrow was there to knock him right back down. In an attack Joe should have anticipated, Scarecrow kicked the cabbie in his other knee. The results were the same and Joe ended up in the same painful and portentous position.

"Why don't you stop? It's not that I wouldn't find kicking your kneecaps into dust amusing, because I certainly would. It's just that I would find your complete, unconditional surrender even sweeter. I'll get it eventually; you're just wasting time and torturing yourself," Scarecrow said.

"Shut up. Your voice is torturing me," Joe muttered.

Summoning up the strength to give it yet another hopeless go, Joe struggled to stand. Scarecrow shook his head in disappointment and flanked the cabbie. Before Joe could get upright or figure out where in the hell the Scarecrow had disappeared to, a foot caught Joe squarely in the center of his back. He was knocked forward and barely had time to throw his arms out in front of him. He saved his face from a nasty encounter with the floor; it impacted with his slashed and bloody arms, instead. Even the softer impact with shirt and flesh sent explosions of pain through his head.

The world took on a gray tinge and Joe wondered if he was about to pass out. If he was, maybe it would be best not to fight it. He was on the verge of losing to a goddamn crazy beanpole of a man. Joe didn't want to remain conscious in a world where he was beaten by such a weakling.

"That was extremely satisfying," Scarecrow said.

Confident that he'd won, Scarecrow took a step back to admire his work. It was a beautiful sight, the cabbie lying prone and helpless. Scarecrow was about to declare his victory when the obscenely resistant taxi driver called upon his last tattered scraps of energy and began to move.

Much to the fiend's amazement and growing chagrin, Joe refused to stay on the floor. Despite it all, he was slowly making it to his hands and knees. The process was hardly faster than the evolution of a species, and Scarecrow decided not to give Joe one last chance.

The kick caught Joe in the ribs and flipped him over onto his back. He was finished. He hardly had the power to raise his arms, let alone stand up and continue getting his ass kicked. Hating himself for failing Danielle, Joe only hoped the Scarecrow had the decency to make it quick.

"I believe you are finally down for the count," Scarecrow said.

He crouched down next to Joe. "I beat you, didn't I? I want to hear you say it. Tell me I won."

"Go pat your own ego."

Scarecrow laid one hand on Joe's chest, directly over his heart. The cabbie cringed and tried to squirm out from underneath the despicable touch. He moved with all the efficiency of an overturned beetle.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to reach into your chest and pull out your heart. This isn't the Temple of Doom, after all," Scarecrow said.

For all the protection Joe's shirt offered, he could have been bare-chested. The Scarecrow's hand, as leathery and foul as ever, felt toxic even through clothing. Though Joe knew people—and the monsters that hid inside of them—were not among the few poisonous mammals, facts were little comfort when it felt like your skin was going to suddenly turn green, putrefy, and fall off.

"No, I like your heart exactly where it is. For right now, at least. Maybe once you're dead—or mostly dead—I'll cut you apart and see if I can't find a reason for your unusual resistance to my fear toxin."

"Fine, great, wonderful, just get your hand off me! I can't stand it," Joe said.

"If you hate my touch so bad, why did you insist on a physical fight? _Hand to hand_ combat, idiot, tends to involve hands," Scarecrow replied. He kept his demonic hand in place.

"I was desperate."

"And stupid. Very stupid, actually. Admit that you were a brainless monkey and maybe I'll remove my hand."

"Bite me!"

Instead of biting, Scarecrow briefly removed his hand, clenched it into a fist, and brought it down like a hammer on Joe's maimed hand. There was pain like a solar flare erupting in his arm and the world abruptly went dim for the cabbie. The white of the ceiling faded to charcoal and the Scarecrow's cruel form evanesced into a shadow. Joe's eyelids fluttered and he made no attempt to hold onto consciousness.

"You're not getting out of here just yet. I told you, you'll only get the peace of oblivion when I am done with you. We're getting close to departure, but there're still some things I'd like to do to you."

The world began to brighten and Joe could have cried. He did not want to continue, he did not want to hurt anymore, and he did not want to spend one more goddamn second with the Scarecrow hovering over him. Enough was enough.

Scarecrow's indescribably hideous face appeared above Joe and blocked out the harsh light that shone down from the ceiling. Unable to turn away from the mask's cold, luminous eyes, Joe could only stare in dumb horror and wish he was dead. Wishing did him no good and terror enveloped him in a bone-chilling embrace.

"Express your fear. Scream for me," Scarecrow purred.

Joe, his mind and body both forced beyond their limits, didn't have the willpower to resist. He screamed and the Scarecrow reveled in the sound. After all the misery the cabbie had caused him, Scarecrow had come out the victor. The monster grinned broadly beneath the mask.

That grin was ripped off his face a second later when Joe, in his final act of desperation, managed to somehow reach up and pull the mask from Scarecrow's head. A new scream now rattled the room. This one came from Scarecrow and was composed of pure rage. Joe had torn his face off! He would pay with his sanity!

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In case anyone isn't familiar with Indiana Jones, in _The Temple of Doom_, a cult performs human sacrifices by ripping the still-beating hearts from its victims.


	24. Joe the Seal

To the oh-so-special anonymous reviewer Dr. Young: Firstly, I see dying in an explosion in the _Arkham Asylum _videogame did nothing for your attitude. Secondly, you care to elaborate as to why my story is "lame"? I'd love to hear your enlightened opinions.

To the articulate reviewers: Don't ever stop being awesome. You guys are all great and lovely. Thanks for your reviews.

* * *

Schiff got so tired of his lopsided gait that he removed his sole sneaker and carried it. He wouldn't dare abandon it on the hard, cruel streets of the Narrows, not when its kin was waiting for it back home, but he just couldn't stand to wear it anymore. Now shoeless, the schizophrenic continued his journey home with only a pair of mismatched socks to protect his feet.

The Narrows, like the cheaply constructed and poorly insulated buildings that were so common in the Gotham slums, were a cold and unpleasant place to be at night. Schiff wished he had his fuzzy, warm blanket to wrap around himself. He also wished he had a map, some hot chocolate, Lassie to lead him home, and both of his shoes. He had exactly none of those things so he plodded onward in growing misery.

"I'm going to freeze to death. That's what will happen. I'll freeze and then rats will eat me. If they can, because I'll be frozen solid. They probably can; they have sharp teeth," Thomas said to nobody in particular.

Ruminating on the rats that would gnaw his icy corpse only made Schiff feel depressed. He didn't want to contribute to the staggering rodent population, nor did he particularly want to die without telling Dr. Crane the phone was gone and was never coming back.

Schiff's mind switched gears and he went from thinking about hungry rats to thinking about Dr. Crane. He wanted to see Dr. Crane again. Maybe, if the doctor was in a good mood and wasn't too busy with that eternally jabbering cabbie, he could take a look at Schiff's neck. The cut, shallow and now fully clotted, was still somewhat painful and it was starting to get itchy. Thomas resisted the urge to scratch at it for all of ten seconds and then gave into the temptation.

Scratching only made the injury hurt worse. Thomas whimpered. He was cold, his socks were filthy, and he'd nearly had his throat cut. And while he was moaning about his woes, his shoulder was sore, too. That crazy hobo had almost dislocated Schiff's arm, and for what reason? Because Schiff had tried to be nice and give him a cell phone? Because he was just a crazy hobo who liked killing people? Because everyone in the world hated Thomas Schiff and wanted him to suffer?

The more Schiff thought about the world's cruelty, the heavier despair weighed on him. He was miserable both physically and emotionally. When he got home—always assuming he wasn't killed by another crazy hobo or by the cold—he was going to crawl into his bed and hide under the covers until he died. Or until Dr. Crane yelled at him and told him to stop being so pathetic and useless.

Thomas meandered around a drunk who was sleeping in the middle of the sidewalk. The drunk, who looked to be roughly 80 years old and had the gray, unkempt beard of someone who had lived in an Afghan cave for the past nine years, didn't stir. Schiff wondered why he couldn't have come across a nice alcoholic instead of a violent serial killer. His situation would be so different if only he'd encountered the snoring boozehound while he'd been looking for a place to ditch the phone.

"Maybe Dr. Crane doesn't even want me anymore. What if replaced me with a better henchman, one who doesn't screw up all the time? What if Scarecrow still wants to kill me? What if he-"

The schizophrenic's doomsday scenario was rudely interrupted when three police cruisers blew by him at more than double the posted speed limit. Not knowing who the police were looking for but suspecting it was a certain mad doctor, Schiff beat a hasty retreat from the area. He had to find the apartment building and warn Dr. Crane before the cops could arrest him. If Dr. Crane was shipped back to Arkham, Schiff would be out of the job and homeless. He didn't want to end up being a disposable goon for one of the new criminals that had popped up over the past months; he had worked for the Joker and the Scarecrow and had miraculously survived. If he was going to risk his life for someone, he didn't want it to be some newbie in a papier-mâché Halloween mask.

On the subject of masks, Scarecrow was in a frenzy to get his back. The nearly-dead son of a bitch that had so rudely torn it off was clutching it with his one good hand and refused to return it to its rightful owner. Scarecrow was loath to get involved in a tug-of-war match over the mask because burlap was not exactly Kevlar and would rip. A mask that had split down the middle like a fat man's over-stressed pants would be useless.

"Let go! Do you hear me? Let go of my mask before I slaughter you," Scarecrow snarled.

"Go to hell."

Joe clung tenaciously to the mask. He was surprised to find that once he separated the mask from the Scarecrow, neither were all that terrifying any more. It was just limp burlap in his hand, nothing malignant or evil; Scarecrow was nothing more than a deranged, unemployed asshole. Together they were the single most frightening thing Joe had ever had the misfortune to lay his eyes on. Taken individually, the cabbie figured he might have a sliver of hope.

"Give me my mask or I will kill you."

"I've been expecting it all night. You go right ahead and kill me, pretty-boy," Joe replied.

Scarecrow paused for a moment to consider his options. Shouting petty threats obviously wasn't going to do much. Threatening to kill Joe was rather like threatening to kill a suicide bomber; it was a complete and utter waste of time as both were more than prepared to meet their maker. If he wanted to have his mask handed back unharmed, Scarecrow figured he'd need a different approach.

"So you aren't afraid anymore. Without my mask, I don't intimidate you. Is that right?" Scarecrow asked.

"Yeah, that's pretty much it."

"I'll have to do something about that."

"Good luck. You've got a face like a member of a boy band: the gay member."

That settled it. Joe had to die. Eventually, at least. First he had to suffer worse than Scarecrow had ever made anyone suffer.

Joe knew he was only pissing Scarecrow off and was, by extension, assuring his life would fall into a new and unprecedented level of hell. He didn't know if he'd improved his chances of escape—probably not, since _nothing_ seemed to work how he wanted it to—but at least he'd gotten to make a few more jokes at the Scarecrow's expense. It was a microscopic victory, but a victory nonetheless.

"You'll be eating your words in a moment. I hope you're prepared to make serious penance for your offenses," Scarecrow said.

"Your never-ending shit offends me. Make penance for that, ass-basket," Joe said.

Scarecrow's plans for maniacally evil revenge were momentarily derailed. "Ass-_basket_?"

"You'd rather be an ass-planter, ass-hubcap, ass-banana, or ass-demon?" Joe asked.

"How did you avoid drowning in your cereal bowl?"

Leaving Joe to his inscrutable insults, Scarecrow turned away from the bad-mouthed cabbie. He was not going to be distracted, no matter what badly formatted affront was thrown his way. He knew exactly what would break the cabbie permanently; it was just a matter of finding what he was looking for.

"If Johnny was standing there when he was knocked out, he should have flung it somewhere over in that direction…" Scarecrow muttered, too quietly for Joe to hear.

The cabbie didn't know where his tormentor was going, but he felt a strong urge to find out. All surprises from the Scarecrow were intrinsically bad surprises, and Joe wanted to know what was coming even if he was too weak to stop it. Slowly, as though his joints were half-frozen, Joe managed to sit up. From his new position he was able to keep a closer eye on the Scarecrow and his skulking.

"What did you do, drop a contact lens? Need some help finding it?" Joe asked.

"Not a lens, no. If you knew what I was hunting for, you'd retract your offer in a hurry," Scarecrow replied.

"Is it your balls? Did they drop off and roll under the chair? 'Cause if they did, I'm not helping you look for them."

Scarecrow barely resisted the temptation to turn around and kick Joe in the teeth. He was beyond disgusted with the cabbie's continued digs at his sexuality and masculinity. It wasn't like Crane—and by proxy his dark half—hadn't been teased and abused about the same topics before; bitter past experience only made him hate Joe's jibes more. Past wrongs were like toxic heavy metals: they accumulated in a person and were never fully flushed from the system. Given enough time, the resentment over them could become as equally dangerous as heavy doses of mercury.

Driving back memories and the seething rage they brought with them, Scarecrow continued his hunt. His estimated trajectory was obviously off, because he hadn't located the object he was seeking. Damn it, Scarecrow didn't have the patience for physics equations.

Finally, Scarecrow spotted what he wanted. He hoped it hadn't been damaged because that would ruin his fun before it even started. Scarecrow picked up the mystery item and examined it.

The villain's luck held and Joe's luck disappeared deeper into the black hole that had been funneling it away all night. Smiling smugly and making no attempt to hide what he'd rescued from the floor, Scarecrow returned to the cabbie. Joe took one look at Scarecrow's prize and felt a familiar fear envelop him.

"Again?" Joe asked. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt pasted to the roof of his mouth. Forming even a single word was difficult.

"Don't think of it as starting over. Think of it as me picking up where my nicer side left off. You interrupted your treatment, and now I'm going to finish it. You've still got most of the third dose left to take, after all."

Scarecrow took a few steps towards Joe. "You received less than a fifth of the dose. I'd be willing to bet, once the rest of it is in your system, your days of insulting me will be over."

"A _fifth_?" Joe asked in stark horror.

"Maybe a sixth. What do you think? I suppose you flunked math class, too, didn't you?" Scarecrow said.

"C-plus, actually."

"Pitiful, completely pitiful. There's no use asking for your opinion, is there? I wouldn't want to subject you to fractions before I broke your mind. That would be too cruel of me."

Scarecrow stepped closer and Joe began to tremble. He felt like a furry little seal pup staring into the hungry jaws of an approaching polar bear. Joe hated the visible manifestation of his fear almost as much as he hated elevating the Scarecrow into a bear and relegating himself to the position of helpless prey animal. No man ever wanted to be the soft and cuddly seal pup, especially not when that soft and furry body was about to be torn apart.

"Let's forget about your woefully inadequate education and move right into the good stuff. I don't know how much information about my compound your primitive brain retained and I don't give a damn. It doesn't matter. You'll learn it all first-hand in a few seconds. Be a good boy and don't move."

Joe had never been all that good at following advice, especially unsolicited advice given by a mad doctor who was holding a needle full of lethal chemicals. The cabbie did his best to move, and managed to scoot back a few inches. His initial intention had been to get to his feet and make himself less of a target; he'd been forced to scale back his goal when his body gave him the finger and told him it would be doing nothing so strenuous until late next week.

"Congratulations. You've forced me to take one extra step. I hope you're happy," Scarecrow said when he noted the great progress his victim had made.

"Overjoyed," Joe replied.

The one additional step did not save Joe's bacon. Scarecrow did not slip, the floor did not conveniently give out beneath him, and Fate saw no reason to send Joe any type of _deus ex machina_. It merely bought him an extra second and made Scarecrow marginally more annoyed.

"You can't begin to imagine how much I'm going to enjoy this. I've been waiting since the moment I first met you."

"How romantic."

"You're finished, cabbie."

"And you're the worst person I've ever met, freak-show."

"I'm about to get a whole lot worse."

With nowhere left to run and not even an embryo of a plan in his head, Joe saw no way out. He didn't want to sit there and have a hallucinogenic toxin injected into him, but his options were non-existent. He supposed he could always try begging for mercy, if he wanted to give the Scarecrow a good laugh and humiliate himself in the process.

"I won't say this won't hurt, because it will. At least I'm being honest with you, you simple proletariat."

"If it'll stop you from throwing the thesaurus at me, shut up and do it."

Careful to avoid another headbutt, Scarecrow walked behind Joe. The cabbie tensed; he could no longer see the Scarecrow and he didn't like being oblivious to whatever the lunatic was doing. It was bad enough to know he was doomed. Not being able to know the exact moment of his damnation was even worse.

Scarecrow's hand unexpectedly squeezed Joe's shoulder in a grip that was far too tight to be comforting.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

There was a sting in his biceps and Joe exhaled sharply. He had seconds left before his brain was flooded with fear toxin. It was literally now or never; he either got the mother of all bright idea or he succumbed.

"You're going to make a wonderful plaything. I can't wait to hear you scream yourself hoarse."

"I guess I better enjoy this then, huh?"

Scarecrow, poised to deliver the horrifying poison, stopped. "Enjoy what?"

Joe played his trump card. He raised the burlap mask from his lap and let the Scarecrow see what he had done.

"Don't you dare," Scarecrow hissed.

His fingers were hooked into the mask's eyeholes and Joe was prepared to tear the hideous sack apart. Joe didn't know if threatening the mask would be enough to make the Scarecrow back off: the lunatic had called it his 'face' and had been pissed when Joe had taken it, but it was still just a poorly stitched bag. The cabbie didn't particularly like his chances.

Tense seconds ticked by. Scarecrow growled and abruptly pulled the needle from Joe's upper arm. Joe was beyond surprised. He couldn't believe he'd actually avoided the poison by holding an ugly mask hostage.

"Don't look so relieved. I'm not letting you go. I've decided to skip ahead and give you the final and fatal dose."

Well, that _sucked._

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In other news, I finally figured out how to get the line breaks to show, so I don't have to use the 1's anymore. Hooray!


	25. Joe's Favorite Finger

Many thanks for the reviews. Have I ever told you guys how awesomely awesome you are? Well, I'm doing it again. You're the very definition of awesome. And if you're not, one of you go make it so on Wikipedia or UrbanDictionary.

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So this was it. This was how his life was going to end. Not in some public and degrading spectacle that would live forever online (thank God), not at a ripe old age and surrounded by grandkids (he'd never really expected that one), and not saving the United States from an impending alien invasion (a man could dream, couldn't he?). No, Joe the Cabbie was going to die in an anonymous apartment building in the Narrows with only a poisoned young woman and a sadistic fruitcake for company.

When faced with impending death, even men of Joe's philosophical level could engage in deep and intriguing internal conversations. The cabbie had never read Aristotle and didn't know William James from Calvin Coolidge, but as he sat and waited, Joe had some remarkable thoughts about life, death, and all that goes on across the universe. His thoughts were never going to appear in a college philosophy textbook, but they were still poignant.

Joe thought about his ex-wife; he'd put off analyzing his marriage and subsequent divorce for far too long. With only a few sane minutes left in his life, he figured now would be as good a time as any to relieve himself of any lingering doubts or bitterness. He missed the woman with whom he'd spent ten good years, three fair years, one bad year, and six miserable months. They'd had their good times and their bad times, and maybe Joe was just being sentimental, but he decided the good outweighed the bad by several infinities.

Their marriage had come apart slowly, unraveling like an old sweater. It was half his fault, half hers. Or maybe the split was more along the lines of seventy/thirty, or fifty-two/forty-eight or maybe the fractions just didn't matter.

Either way, they'd gone their separate ways and now Joe wished he'd called her more often to make sure she wasn't living in a doghouse somewhere in the outskirts of Akron. He wished he'd sent her flowers on Valentine's Day. He wished they'd kept in touch. He wished he'd done a lot of things.

"Too late now," Joe muttered.

"Too late for what?" Scarecrow asked.

"Everything. It's too late for everything."

Scarecrow smiled at Joe's misery. Even if he hadn't gotten the obstinate fool to admit it, Scarecrow knew he had thoroughly and completely beaten down the cabbie. Joe wasn't quite a sobbing, broken husk of a man—the last dose would take care of that—but the cockiness had been drained from him.

"Yes, there aren't many life's goals that can be achieved in three minutes, especially when you can't even walk," Scarecrow said.

Joe could have delivered a snappy comeback, but he didn't. His time had wound down to, as the Scarecrow had just said, three minutes. That was hardly enough time to make a bag of microwavable popcorn, let alone make peace with your entire life and find solace in what'd you done with your years.

"As your last two hundred seconds tick away, are you afraid of what's coming? Fear, madness, death, do they intimidate you?"

These last, vanishing seconds were far too valuable to squandered responding to the Scarecrow's questions. Joe pushed the taunting voice from his head and stayed focused. He'd finally acknowledged the pain from his dissolved marriage that had haunted him and no longer had to carry that weight. Now he just had to come to terms and find some closure with everything else. If he was ever going to get to even a fraction of his ghosts, he couldn't allow himself to be distracted.

"Don't feel like answering that one? That's alright. It was more of a rhetorical question, anyway. Of course you're intimidated. You're probably terrified, and if you aren't, you will be soon enough," Scarecrow said.

Joe was not terrified of dying. The knowledge of his impending end was a little off-putting at best and he had no real explanation to elucidate his lack of apprehension. He had no strong, solid belief in an afterlife, he had not been comforted by the words or writings of any great thinker, and he wasn't desensitized. He must have just been weird.

"While you're no doubt recalling all the marvelous things you did in your life, let's see if you can answer this question. For a man of your achievements it may be difficult, but try to be humble. What do you regret?" Scarecrow asked.

Joe had been able to ignore the Scarecrow's first question; this one struck him too sharply. He was pulled away from his thoughts and said a single name.

"Danielle."

That gave Scarecrow pause. He pondered the cabbie's answer. What aspect of Danielle did Joe regret? Meeting her in the first place, failing to protect her, dying before she did?

"Interesting, that a women you've known for all of eight hours would affect you so deeply. I almost wish I had time to analyze the situation and get to know your psyche better. I'll have to settle for shattering it instead."

Scarecrow finished swapping the toxins. The task could have taken only thirty seconds if he'd been in a mood to hurry; he'd purposely taken his time, giving Joe an extra few minutes to stew. There was no reason to deny his victim the chance to stare into the yawning chasm before Scarecrow gave him the final push into the darkness.

"Don't worry too much. She'll be joining you soon enough. Her screams are appealing but nothing spectacular. I'll dispose of her in an hour or so and find a place to dump your bodies. Would you rather the river or a secluded spot in Robinson Park?" Scarecrow asked.

There was no way to get back to his contemplative internal world now. Joe was too outraged and disgusted by the Scarecrow's comments. Killing someone was bad enough; casually discussing another murder and the subsequent dumping of the bodies was an inhuman outrage. Anger he didn't know he had the energy to still feel surged through him.

"Keep me in the freezer for all I care. But don't you dare do anything to her. You son of a bitch, don't you dare."

"And here I thought I'd beaten the sarcasm out of you. Not quite all of it, apparently. You are a truly resilient specimen. I've never met anyone who could take so much abuse."

"I'm not trying to be funny. Listen to me, you weird little nutcase, what you've done is bad enough. Leave her alone or I'll make you regret it."

"I can't believe it. You're still blowing empty threats at me, as if you weren't a minute away from having your mind destroyed. You _lost_. You are going to _die_. I win, I'm going to kill you, and I'll do whatever I want with the both of you. If I decide to use your stinking corpse as a doorstop, I will. If I choose to pickle her internal organs, it will happen. Do you understand me?" Scarecrow asked.

There were no words in any known language to describe Joe's fury. Luckily, there was a gesture that could convey his feelings. With both hands, unscathed and butchered alike, Joe flipped off the Scarecrow. The hand that had endured so much abuse throbbed with newfound vigor but Joe shoved the pain out of the way and kept his one-finger salute fully erect.

"Classy. Even to the end, you are true to your nature. Congratulations. Let's have the send off and be rid of you once and for all," Scarecrow said.

Needle in hand, Scarecrow advanced on Joe. The cabbie forced a grin and refused to lower his final message to the villain. Every muscle in his body demanded he at least make an attempt at fleeing, but Joe silenced his survival instinct. This was no time to listen to his fears.

"I see you've dropped my mask, so I'll offer you one last deal. Hand it over to me and I'll put you out of your misery after half an hour," Scarecrow said.

The burlap sack sat in Joe's lap. He'd let it go because he'd decided giving the Scarecrow the finger was more important than keeping his mask hostage. It was obvious Scarecrow intended to kill him, mask or no mask, so Joe had put his hands to better use.

"You want it, take it. My hands are busy working overtime, in case you didn't notice," Joe replied. His maimed hand felt like it had been working five days straight without a rest, and the cabbie honestly didn't know how much longer he could choke back the pain before half his vulgar protest collapsed.

"No early release for you, I see. If that's how you want it, that's how you'll get it," Scarecrow said.

Scarecrow, circling Joe to avoid any last-second attacks the cabbie might have had planned, came up behind his victim. Joe lowered his hands and slumped his shoulders. He had done his best, and while it hadn't been good enough, he wouldn't die totally ashamed.

"Any last words? You have ten seconds, so make them quick," Scarecrow said.

"Yeah, here's two words. Fu-"

"Joe."

Two heads abruptly turned towards Danielle. Joe dared to hope he'd see her lucid and shaking off the fear toxin's dreadful effects. That was the last thing Scarecrow wanted to see; if his test subject was recovering already, it would imply his entire batch of toxin was defective. Having to round up all the necessary ingredients and start over would be an enormous, expensive, and time-consuming task.

Danielle was looking about as aware as the average eggplant. She was still tightly curled in on herself and was obviously still under the full effects of the toxin. There was no way she could have been cognizant to Joe's plight; she was calling out to him because of something she was hallucinating.

"Maybe she still thinks you can help her. Poor deluded little girl. You can't even help yourself, let alone save her. If she recovers before I kill her, I'll let her know how miserable your end was and how misplaced her hope in you was," Scarecrow said.

Before Joe could reply, Danielle called his name again. Her voice was haunted and filled with an unbelievable amount of fear. She sounded like she was facing down the most awful thing in the universe and it was about to snack on her.

Her tormented voice was like a good kick in the ass. It broke through Joe's barrier of resignation and kindled a blaze in him. He had been on the verge of accepting death and taking it without further fuss. Now he realized the long and winding road of his life couldn't run out just yet. There was one more promise he had to keep, no matter the cost.

"Scarecrow."

Hearing his name, the villain looked down at his victim. "Yes? Is there something you want? Funeral arrangements, maybe?"

"Remember when I told you I'd yank your mask off and make you eat it?"

"Vaguely," Scarecrow replied.

"It's time."

Scarecrow burst into merciless laughter. "That's rich, coming from a man who-"

The lunatic's laughter was cut off abruptly when Joe grabbed his ankle and yanked him off his feet.

In a not so distant part of the Narrows, another psychopath was interrupted unexpectedly. He stopped using his carving knife like a drumstick and listened intently. A new sound, one he'd been hoping to hear, reached his ears. It was the low roar of powerful engines, and it was coming his way in a hurry.

Zsasz felt a familiar and marvelous sensation steal over him. It was an amalgamation of fear, anticipation, excitement and pleasure. It was the thrill of the hunt and it never failed to get his blood pumping.

The killer was like a stalking cat that was prepared to pounce, his body thrumming with tense energy. He shifted from a sitting position to a crouch and brought the knife up to chest level. He would move with the speed of a chameleon's tongue when the time was right; when his prey wandered into the alley, he would grab and restrain it before it ever had a chance to defend itself.

After a few minutes of almost breathless waiting, Zsasz finally caught sight of the squad cars. There were three of them, and they were no longer barreling down the streets like they were in hot pursuit of someone. They crept by the alley, but it was obvious they would stop and park nearby.

"Pretty little policemen in a row. Don't keep me waiting too long," Zsasz said to himself.

Two blocks down, the police cars pulled up to the curb. The six officers emerged into the cool night air. Stephens took time to reiterate the dangers of the situation and to remind everyone of the insane killer's long rap sheet. Having been properly warned, the cops paired up, turned on their flashlights and began the search.

"I love the buddy system. It saved me at summer camp once," Benson said.

Stephens knew ignoring his partner would do no good, so he asked, "How? Your fellow camper pull you out of the lake?"

"No, but that would have been less painful. I got stung by a bee, right on the nose, and my eyelids swelled shut. My buddy hefted my blind ass over his shoulders and carried me down the trail. Funny thing was, he was twenty pounds lighter than me and could hardly lift a tennis racket. I don't know how he ever got me off the ground."

"Does every single one of your stories involve bees?"

"Only the good ones."

Stephens resisted the urge to whack his partner with his flashlight. Instead of bruising Benson's head, the detective shined his powerful light down a deserted alley. The reflective eyes of a stray cat peered back at the detectives before the animal hissed in displeasure and bolted.

"Poking around like this will take all night. I'm going to try calling the phone," Benson said.

"Go ahead. It's probably been turned off or destroyed," Stephens replied.

Benson brought out his own phone, punched in Danielle's number from memory, and listened keenly for any music, chirps, or buzzing. There was nothing that sounded remotely like a ringtone.

"The phone's still on; it rings and then is forwarded to voicemail. We just aren't close enough to hear it," Benson said.

"We aren't close enough or it's on silent, or vibrate, or is sitting in Zsasz's pocket. We're looking for a needle in a haystack."

"No, we're looking for a phone the size of a playing card in a dirty, rundown, bombed-out crater. We've got—let me do the math—about 280,000 square feet to search. Always assuming the phone is still here and our man didn't turn tail and isn't half way to Metropolis by now."

"I'd bet you anything he's still here," Stephens replied.

"Alright, here's the deal. We find him, I won't mention bees or a certain cat and mouse duo for a whole week. We don't find him, you come over my house this weekend and watch _Tom and Jerry _with me without complaining or breaking my TV."

Stephens jumped on the opportunity to earn a week without Benson's awful jokes and wasp-related tales. If he hadn't been motivated to find the lunatic before, he was dead-set on it now. There was nothing that would keep him from dragging Zsasz's sorry carcass straight back to Arkham, where it rightfully belonged.

Nothing, that was, except the nine inches of serrated steel the killer planned to use on his detective friends.

* * *

If anyone wants a fun challenge, in this chapter there are five Beatles song titles plus lyrics for _I am the Walrus_ and _Happiness is a Warm Gun_. All the titles are two or more words long, so _Help_ and _Because_ don't count, just because that's too easy. Happy hunting, if you so decide to accept this mission.


	26. Things Get Ugly

Thanks ever so much to the reviewers!

And good job with the last chapter's challenge. Most of the hidden songs were successfully found. Check out the bottom for this week's challenge!

* * *

Scarecrow came down hard on his tailbone and grunted as the force of the impact jostled his body. Having such a scrawny frame only made his fall worse; he had precious little cushioning in his posterior to soften the landing. Pain shot up from his bruised coccyx, used his spine like a conduit, and rattled his head. He was given a harsh reminder of the headbutt that had knocked Crane out not so long ago.

Joe knew he had to move fast or the Scarecrow would recover and that would be the brutal, violent end of Joe the Cabbie. Moving fast, however, was just slightly easier than stopping a runaway subway train with his bare hands. He was in worse shape than he'd ever imagined possible, and his opponent was a sadistic psychopath with no regard for human life.

Fighting back the pain and weariness one last time, Joe staggered to his feet. He found Scarecrow still sitting and looking incredibly furious over his current position. The cabbie smirked and moved in before the Scarecrow could get up.

Trying to ignore the throbbing ache that ran the length of his spine, Scarecrow attempted to stand. That plan was scrapped when a bolt of pure agony struck him; it felt like a vertebra had been replaced with a spiny sea urchin. He gasped at the sharp, stabbing sensation and decided to stay on the floor.

Even worse than the pain in his back was the fury he felt when Joe's shadow fell over him. His victim, who'd been seconds away from permanent incapacitation, had somehow managed to turn the tables. Scarecrow, the unchallenged god of fear, had been knocked from the saddle by an insignificant, uneducated worm of a man.

"What's the matter? Throw out your back?" Joe asked.

"Shut up. I'll see you dead yet," Scarecrow snarled.

"Yeah, I think you did. Same thing happened to a buddy of mine. He was pathetic; he couldn't even get off the couch. If you so much as touched his back…" Joe limped to the Scarecrow's flank and pressed his foot against the mad doctor's spine.

The pain that ensued was worse than being bitten and just slightly less agonizing than being headbutted into unconsciousness. Scarecrow, running through the long list of physical injuries he'd been dealt in his life, found one that was comparably painful: the punch of a certain winged night rat. His back certainly did feel as though one of Batman's massive, merciless fists had struck it.

"He pissed and moaned, like that. Only not quite like such a little girl," Joe said.

"You will grovel like a dog at my feet and I will-"

"You'll shut the hell up or I'll give you a good kick. I don't have time for your Doctor Doom bullshit."

"Doctor Doom is an amateur!"

As though he was pushing down on a car's accelerator, Joe dug his foot deeper into the Scarecrow's back. The villain swore and clenched his hands into such tight fists that his nails left crescent imprints in his palms.

"I want you to shut up and hand over the keys to my cab and the keys to these handcuffs," Joe said.

"No."

Joe applied more pressure and felt the Scarecrow writhe beneath his foot. The cabbie relished the power he suddenly had over his tormentor. Minutes ago, he'd been practically shaking hands with the reaper; now he was stepping on the bastard who'd ruined his night.

"Keys, ass-head, before I pretend you're a hornet and _really_ stomp on you."

"I am the Master of Fear, you are nothing, you can rot into a festering pile of-"

Since Joe liked even a rankled hive of ill-tempered mud wasps more than he liked the Scarecrow, grinding his shoe into the fiend's back was a darkly pleasurable experience. It was nice not to be the victim for once. Joe was perfectly happy with the situation's new arrangements.

That contentment, however, didn't stay sweet for long. As the Scarecrow twisted like an angry cat and growled increasingly nasty threats, Joe felt—of all the stupid, irrelevant emotions—guilt creeping into him. He could hardly believe it; he had just spent an entire night enduring a madman's pseudoscientific torture and now that he had the upper hand on the madman, he felt bad about it. Joe could have kicked himself if his foot hadn't been otherwise occupied.

"And you will know terror as none before you! Do you hear me?"

"Cut the bullshit. This isn't fun for either of us. Give me the keys and stop squawking. You're giving me a migraine and I don't know if there's any more Tylenol," Jo said.

"Step on me all you like. You're not getting the keys."

"Alright, since I've got permission, I'm going to stomp you."

Scarecrow refused to give into the threat and Joe had no choice but to follow through. He stamped down, holding back quite a bit for a reason he couldn't articulate, and felt more guilt despite his restraint.

The Scarecrow cried out once and then stifled himself. His breaths came in ragged pants and his mind buzzed with fury over his impotence. He was being hurt this badly by a pathetic test subject, a human guinea pig, and he did not like it. He wanted to maim Joe, to kill the cabbie in a way no man had ever died before, but was forced to sit on the floor and squirm like a worm.

The brief yelp of pain affected Joe more than he wanted to admit. He'd hurt people before—in fights during his younger days and once or twice he'd been forced to kick the ass of a violent cab passenger—but he'd never gone after a person who was injured already. Punching someone who had it coming was one thing; stomping on a man who couldn't defend himself was something else entirely. It was, in a truthfulness, probably torture.

Joe was many things—a cabbie, divorcee, stubborn beyond all reason—but he evidently was not a sadist. He couldn't even enjoy hurting a filthy little degenerate like the Scarecrow, no matter how much the bastard deserved to hurt. Frustrated at his rebelling morality, Joe decided to get the job done and over with as quickly as possible, before he found himself apologizing or something equally mortifying.

"Look, you're hurting, I'm hurting, everybody's hurting. Give me the keys and I'll take Danielle and we'll be gone. You can slither into whatever hole you crawled out of and we'll never have to see each other again."

"How dense are you? No, _nein_, _non_, _nyet_, _nu_, _neen_. Must I continue or did you understand one of those?"

A kick to a terribly aggravated muscle was the same in any language and Scarecrow had nothing coherent to say about the pain he found himself in. He was reduced to fighting back screams and he was smart enough to know it was only a matter of time before he utterly humiliated himself. There was a choice he had to make: did he hand over the keys and let his prey escape or did he continue to endure because of his pride and a vague hope things would start going his way again?

"This time I'm going to pretend I'm kicking a field goal from the forty-yard line," Joe said.

"Take the keys and expect a visit from me in the very near future."

"Throw them in front of you, and I don't mean a little baby toss. I mean really chuck them."

For good reasons, Joe was wary of getting in front of or too close to the Scarecrow. The psychopath still had his needle full of death and Joe wasn't keen on getting stuck with it. Even if the Scarecrow hadn't been armed, the cabbie still would have been cautious. It wasn't out of the realm of plausibility—at least in Joe's mind—that the Scarecrow would try to attack one final time. He was certainly enough of a horror movie villain to launch a shocking, last-second assault.

"Even if you get away, you can never escape. You won't be a difficult man to track down. I know your name, your occupation, your insurance status. I will hunt you down and you will suffer through things unspeakable."

"I hate sequels," Joe muttered. Then, louder, he said, "Just shut the hell up and do what I told you. Keys, chuck, way over there."

Burning with rage and humiliation, Scarecrow fished the keys from his pocket and hurled them across the room. The foot immediately left his back and the pain and pressure diminished to perfectly bearable levels. Finding this relief, Scarecrow was tempted to try and stand again; the persistence of memory kept him still. He was not eager to relive that stabbing sensation any time soon.

"Great, the Scarecrow has a brain after all," Joe said.

"Making _Wizard of Oz_ references will not help you!"

Joe hobbled after the keys and ignored the waves of hate that radiated off the Scarecrow. Unless wrath was proven to be carcinogenic, Joe supposed he'd be alright. It wasn't like he hadn't endured far worse than an evil glare.

As he bent down to pick up the keys, the cabbie was given a wonderful taste of what life would be like should he live to be 100 years old and fossilized with arthritis. Every joint was stiff and painful, especially the knees that had recently been kicked. Moving was a chore, everyday tasks seemed nigh impossible, and life wasn't any fun at all.

"Being old is crappy," Joe said.

Finally his hand grasped the keys and picked them up. Joe wasted no time unlocking his handcuffs and discarding them. He was so happy to see his wrists free that he kissed the newly exposed skin. If it was weird, so what? The only person who might have seen had a burlap and duct tape fetish.

Now that he was free, it was only a matter of helping Danielle. The cabbie shuffled towards her curled-up form. She had apparently either tired herself out or fallen unconscious because she was unmoving and silent. That was a relief. Her screams had nearly driven Joe insane and he was thankful that he wouldn't have to deal with them.

"Danielle, you alright? Can you hear me? I'm gonna get you out of here, like I promised. Just hold on one second. I don't move so well right now," Joe said.

Though they were only separated by a few feet, Joe felt exhausted by the time he reached Danielle's side. When—perhaps too sure of success, Joe had stopped thinking of escape in terms of "if" and had adopted a more positive "when"—they were safe, the cabbie figured he'd sleep for about three days straight. Whatever came after that, Joe didn't care. So long as he could sleep and get away from it all for 72 or more hours, he would survive.

Joe knelt down besides Danielle and reached for her wrists. He intended to get her cuffs off and then see if she was capable of walking. If she could motor under her own power, that would be great. If she couldn't, the cabbie wasn't sure what he'd do. He was in no shape to carry her and he doubted if the Scarecrow would be willing to help him.

The second Joe's hand touched Danielle, she jerked as though he'd jabbed her with a hot poker. Her eyes, mirrors of insane horror, locked onto the cabbie and she began to shriek. That startled Joe. Danielle's flailing fist nearly socking him in the nose startled him worse.

"Whoa! Danielle, calm down. I'm not going to hurt you, I swear. I'm going to save you; we're almost out of here. Please, don't hit me," Joe pleaded.

"I warned you before not to touch her. You appear to her even more horrible than I appeared to you. You'll never get those cuffs off while she's in that state. She'll fight you tooth and nail and, judging from the condition you're in, she'll kill you before you subdue her," Scarecrow said.

"Goddamn it! We're _this_ close. This close! How long will she be like that?" Joe demanded.

Scarecrow laughed. "Hours."

"Oh God." Joe sunk to the floor in despair. He had done so much, so much more than he ever thought himself capable of doing, and now he'd hit a brick wall. He wouldn't leave Danielle, not in a vigintillion years. He couldn't help her, either, not if she was going to attack him. He had reached an impassible obstacle just as his hopes had soared highest and it was too much to bear.

While their level of frustration was nowhere near as high or as soul-crushing as Joe's, detectives Stephens and Benson were beginning to get anxious. Their fellow officers, via radio contact, had all reported negatively on finding anything of importance. Benson's constant attempts to call Danielle's phone were also coming up empty. Wherever the phone was, nobody had come across it yet.

"Jerry, I think I hear something buzzing."

"Bees aren't nocturnal. You're imagining things, Benson. Lay off the coffee," Stephens replied.

"No, I really hear something and it's definitely buzzing. Holy hell, it sounds like an enormous hive! Don't you hear that?" Benson asked.

"I don't hear anything, except your paranoia. Look, if it's bothering you so much, go investigate it. I'll be right here, waiting for status updates from Bullock and Montoya. Just make it quick."

"Is splitting up a good idea? I mean, in _Scooby-Doo_, whenever they split up the monster always-"

"Did you really learn all your detective skills from Saturday morning cartoons?" Stephens asked.

Benson had the good sense to blush and mutter that no, Hanna-Barbera had not been the chief source of his police training. He left his partner standing on the sidewalk and aimed his flashlight down the dim alley that connected to the slightly better illuminated street. Nothing immediately announced itself as the source of the buzzing and the reluctant detective continued farther into the alleyway.

"You found a _what_?" Benson heard his partner ask the handheld police radio. "Well, tell him not to touch it!"

With Stephens explaining how horrible rabies vaccines would be—Benson didn't even want to guess what Bullock and Montoya had come across—the younger detective decided to locate the source of the buzzing as quickly as possible. The alley was creepy, it reeked, and he didn't want to spend any extra time in it.

To avoid having to return to the alley and search it with Stephens by his side, Benson decided to try a perfunctory phone call. He dialed Danielle's missing phone and listened. Underneath the droning, which was growing louder and was not in his imagination, the detective picked up another sound. It was faint and hardly distinguishable from the ambient buzz, but it was definitely there.

"Jerry-"

"Montoya,_ do not let him pet it_!"

"Shit," Benson muttered. He decided to locate the phone first and call his partner over as soon as he'd found it.

The flashlight beam trailed along the alley floor and soon revealed the unpleasant body of a dumpster. Benson called the missing phone again and confirmed the worst. Both the buzzing and the phone were in the same rotten, foul place.

"If I get stung…"

Benson quelled his fear of all things waspish and inched towards the dumpster. The smell became almost overwhelming. He forgot about his reluctance and opened the dumpster's lid.

The stink that rolled out hit him like a punch to the gut. Benson had seen water-logged bodies pulled from the river that smelled better than the garbage bin. He turned his head away and covered his nose with his sleeve.

"Jesus Chr-"

Detective Benson was cut off as a hand clamped over his mouth and an arm tightened across his chest. Before he could go for his gun, he was pulled backwards and out of sight. A sinister, happy voice spoke in his ear.

"Hello, detective. I'm so glad you finally showed up."

* * *

The challenge this chapter: guess what sort of critter Montoya and Bullock found.

The languages Scarecrow says "no" in are, in order: English, German, French, Russian, Romanian and Dutch.

A vigintillion, since I'm sure many of you are unfamiliar, is a one followed by 63 zeros. Blame H.P. Lovecraft for introducing this astronomical figure to the world.


	27. Presents Nobody Wants

Thanks for the reviews! You lovely reviewers are all _muy bueno. _

Good job on this chapter's challenge. We've had great diversity in the guesses, from bats to baboons. Unfortunately, nobody's been quite right. Here's a hint. The animal is nocturnal and is often seen as road-kill.

* * *

In the middle of feeling like the butt of the cruelest cosmic joke in history, Joe's brain kicked on. It wasn't quite a foreign feeling—he'd had more than one miraculous spontaneous idea pop into his head during the past few hours—but he was still surprised every time it happened. Joe never would have considered his mind capable of hatching the schemes it had if he hadn't been there to experience it all firsthand.

"Hey, Scarecrow," Joe said.

"No, I'm not quite up to finishing you off just yet. Give me another ten minutes and we'll talk."

"Not that, ass-rat. Your scary poison, there's an antidote, isn't there?"

Scarecrow paused and carefully considered his answer. "Why would you suspect that?"

"Because you're smarter than me, I'll admit it, and _I _wouldn't make some deadly toxic shit without also making an antidote. If I wouldn't do it, you wouldn't, either. So either there is an antidote, or you're a dumbass."

There was just no arguing with that logic, Scarecrow had to cede. He was most certainly _not_ a dumbass, and there was indeed an antidote to his fear toxin. Exactly how the cabbie had managed to figure it out, Scarecrow wasn't quite sure. For an idiot, Joe tended to have some incredibly bright moments. That was just one more reason for the Scarecrow to hate him.

"Yes, there's an antidote. However, it's of no concern to you. You aren't going to get it," Scarecrow said.

"The hell I'm not. I'll come back over there and kick the crap out of you again if that's what it takes."

Scarecrow sized up Joe and tried to estimate how likely another literal ass-kicking was. The cabbie didn't look like he'd be up to anything more strenuous than breathing, but his looks were deceptive. Somehow, no matter how beaten down and finished Joe appeared to be, he always managed to pull the energy from some secret stash and get back up. It was one of the single most infuriating traits Scarecrow had ever found in a person.

"I don't believe you can," Scarecrow said. He knew he was playing a dangerous game of Russian roulette. He only hoped he hadn't shot himself.

"You just wait and see, buddy. You're pissing me off and when I'm pissed off, there's nothing I can't do."

To prove just how empowering his negative feelings were, Joe tried to regain his feet with one motion. That was hastily amended to getting up at all; even with his hands now free and ready to aid him, the cabbie couldn't seem to get his legs to stay steady or his body to balance properly. He felt like he was trying to ride a bike without training wheels for the first time and was headed for a complete wipeout.

Breathing heavy, Joe collapsed back to the floor. Alright, he'd overestimated the curative powers of his anger. He just needed a minute—or something to make him insane with anger—and he'd be able to pull his pitiful, shambling carcass together long enough to show the Scarecrow who was the boss.

Scarecrow recognized the situation for the opportunity it was and knew he had to leap all over it if he was to salvage his hard work. Very slowly, placing only the barest pressure on his back muscles, Scarecrow pulled his body into a hunched crouch. He looked a bit like a gargoyle in his current position, but he was loath to straighten up too quickly and feel severe pain stab him.

If he played the part of the tortoise and took it slow and steady, Scarecrow was sure he could get up without causing any undo pain or damage to his back. Focused solely on his own body and the signals it was sending his brain, Scarecrow began the long process of standing up straight. He couldn't rush it, not if he wanted to avoid the sensation of invisible knives skewering his spine, but time was truly of the essence.

"Shit, oh shit," Joe muttered. He couldn't fail to notice just how much progress the Scarecrow was making with his endeavor. The lunatic was already well on his way to regaining his status as a biped. Joe, on the other hand, was still flat on his ass.

On his feet but with his torso bent at an unpleasant forty-degree angle, Scarecrow began the laborious task of straightening out his back without causing horrendous pain. His progress slowed further and the increments of success became smaller. The work also became more difficult as the level of discomfort rose.

"Okay, Joe, you've gotta get up now or you're boned. You don't want to be screwed by _that thing_, do you? No way, no how do you want that." Joe wasn't sure what good giving himself a pep talk would do, but he was willing to try anything to get his legs to cooperate.

With the threat of being screwed permanently hanging over his head like the blade of a guillotine, Joe was more than motivated to get off his butt. He tried to convert desire into action and his body half went along with the plan. His right leg was cooperative and obeyed the commands his nerves were sending it; Joe's left leg decided it was done listening and refused to bend at the knee.

"Goddamn it, don't you do this to me," Joe hissed to his own leg.

The leg, properly chastised, finally did its job. Joe slowly stood, careful not to put any extra pressure on his disobedient left leg.

Now that he was up, Joe immediately looked to see how much progress the Scarecrow had made. To his utmost horror—he couldn't really claim it had been to his utmost surprise, not with his luck swimming in the toilet—the Scarecrow had done an impeccable job of getting the kinks out of his spine. Though he was not going to be performing summersaults anytime soon, Scarecrow had managed to straighten himself out and was standing with nary a slouch.

"Can't I get one freaking break? Just a tiny, little one?" Joe asked the omnipotent forces of the universe. He was given no reply and took this as a big, celestial blow off.

"I don't think I can allow you a break, but I do have a little surprise for you," Scarecrow said.

It was only then that Joe noticed the Scarecrow was holding one hand behind his back; he was obviously hiding the cabbie's surprise. Joe wasn't too eager to have that surprise sprung on him. He had a pretty good idea of exactly what gift the Scarecrow was bearing and Joe didn't want it.

"Be a good boy, close your eyes, and put out your hand. I'll give you your well-earned surprise," Scarecrow said.

"If it ain't that cookie you promised me, take your surprise and stick it where the sun doesn't shine."

"We can pretend it's your cookie, if that will make it easier on you. Imagine it's your favorite type of cookie."

"You know what? Screw the cookie, too. If you baked it, I don't want it anymore. I don't care if it's ninety percent chocolate chips and only ten percent actual cookie. Eat it yourself; you need it more than I do, you twig," Joe said.

"Of course you choose to do things the hard way. I'm glad. I want an excuse to hurt you."

Scarecrow stepped toward Joe. His arm was still secreted behind his back, his devious surprise still hidden from view. Wary of the dark gift the Scarecrow intended for him, Joe tensed up and prepared to either fight or flee.

"It's ironic, isn't it? The one thing that seals your fate is the one thing you refuse to part with. Oh, I love self-sacrifice; it thins out the gene pool and provides me with wonderful entertainment. If only you weren't such a miserable cretin, I might have enjoyed knowing you," Scarecrow said.

"Yeah, and maybe if you weren't a sadistic little nut job who got off on hurting people I might have enjoyed knowing you. Too bad," Joe said.

To show just how much of a sadistic little nut job he really was, Scarecrow revealed his present. As Joe had anticipated, he did not want what the Scarecrow was offering him.

"No offense or anything, doc, but I'm going to have to decline. Needles really aren't my thing. I don't think they're anyone's thing. Except for maybe yours, but you're _special_."

"I'm afraid you can't refuse my gift. I'm very adamant you receive it."

Scarecrow took a step forward and Joe retreated. Backing away seemed cowardly, but going straight for the Scarecrow when he was armed with a toxic chemical was suicide. Joe, the two-time chemistry flunky, had no idea how much concentrated fear toxin it would take to induce a lethal overdose, but he figured even a little bit would disable him. After all, he'd gotten only a small percentage of the last dose and it had left him in terror of the Scarecrow's mask. Comparing the taste he'd gotten of the third compound to this deadly concoction would probably be like comparing beer to straight grain alcohol. The latter's potency was so far beyond the former's that they were hardly in the same class.

"Now, don't be like that. There is no escape, as I've been telling you from the beginning. Not unless you abandon Danielle and leave her to me."

"I won't do it. She hugged me, and you definitely don't leave behind huggers," Joe said.

The Scarecrow laughed and Joe cringed. The laughter simply was not right. Normal human laughter was supposed to be contagious, to be able to brighten a room and raise spirits. Scarecrow's laugh was about as pleasant as the screams of someone who was slowly being fed into a wood-chipper.

"You poor bleeding heart. Take your medicine and get it over with before you emasculate yourself further."

"Stop acting like you've still got a medical license before I kick your ass nine ways to Sunday," Joe replied.

Just as Joe was reluctant to strike for fear of getting a fatal dose of mind-rending poison pumped into him, Scarecrow was reluctant to make a quick move for fear of getting punched in the face. The cabbie's hands were free and he wouldn't hesitate to use them on Scarecrow if given the chance. Though he held the sole weapon, Scarecrow wasn't eager to test his luck. He wanted to drive Joe back and hopefully trip him up before trying to finish the belligerent taxi-driver.

Scarecrow advanced another step and Joe fell back. Both parties knew their game couldn't go on forever, or even for long. The room wasn't exactly spacious, and between the chairs, table, and Danielle's body—which had again assumed the form of a tightly wound ball—there were plenty of obstacles. It wouldn't be long before Joe was backed into a corner or his unsteady feet tripped over something. Scarecrow had to keep pressing until either situation occurred.

Joe was desperate for a way out that didn't involve him screaming himself to death. There was the door, and he could probably make it if he tried, but he refused to consider it. Danielle was his responsibility; they either both lived or both perished. If he took the coward's escape and abandoned her, the guilt would haunt him for whatever wretched life he might have left to suffer through. No, he needed an option he could actually choose.

The cabbie's eyes flicked back and forth around the room. The furnishings were sparse and what little was available was useless. The chairs and table were too heavy to even move, let alone use as bludgeons. There were no lamps, vases, small appliances or any other decorative items that could be hefted. Danielle's suitcase was a possibility, though the damn thing was bulky and Joe didn't know if he'd be able to swing it with only one hand. He needed something smaller and more compact.

Danielle's suitcase might have been a poor weapon, but it gave Joe one hell of an idea. The Scarecrow's briefcase was much smaller but was definitely well put together. It also seemed to be a treasure trove of nasty, painful toys.

It was just crazy and poetic enough to work. Without waiting for the Scarecrow to come at him, Joe began to back away. He tried to head for the table without being overly obvious. If the Scarecrow realized what was going on, he'd put a swift end to Joe's plan.

"You're going to make me chase you? Ah, maybe you're not quite as brave as I thought," Scarecrow said.

Joe took another step back and decided he was close enough to the table. Praying his feet wouldn't slip with the sudden movement, the cabbie pivoted and reached for the Scarecrow's briefcase. His hand missed the case's handle and instead fell among the case's contents. Joe tightened his grip on the first item he grabbed and pulled it from the case.

There was a God and he wasn't always a complete ass. By sheer dumb luck, Joe had found the Scarecrow's gun. The whole hellish encounter had begun with the weapon pointed in Joe's face; if the cabbie had his way, it would end with the Scarecrow staring down the barrel.

As Crane was faced with the muzzle of his own gun, Detective Benson was faced with nine inches of cold, steel mortality. He was restrained, silenced, and at the mercy of a homicidal lunatic. For the first time in his life, Benson wished he'd followed in his father's footsteps and had gone to veterinary school.

"Turn off your flashlight, detective."

Benson garbled something unintelligible into the hand that covered his mouth. He would not, under any circumstances, turn off his light. His situation was already unbearable. If he had to be held hostage in total darkness, he'd probably go insane.

"Turn it off, detective, or I will cut your fingers off." The killer's voice didn't turn sharp or threatening, despite the promised violence. It maintained its light and cheery tone, much to Benson's horror.

Unwilling to lose his fingers, Benson clicked off the flashlight. The alleyway was flooded with impenetrable gloom. The cop couldn't see anything: not his partner, not the ground, not even the knife that threatened to slaughter him like a pig.

"That's good. Now, I'm going to take my hand off your mouth. Don't say anything and don't scream for help. If you scream, well, take me at my word and don't do it."

The hand was removed and the only thing Benson could do was gasp for breath. Despite his nose being unobstructed, he'd had a horrible time getting enough air. He supposed it was panic; the body used much more oxygen when it was hyped up on fear.

"You're very good a following directions, detective."

"Thanks," Benson muttered.

"Except for that slipup. I did tell you to be quiet, didn't I?"

Benson nodded his head. He knew he was walking on the edge of a knife; anything he said or did could possibly make Zsasz kill him. If he ever wanted to see his family again, he'd have to be more careful and play by every single rule the crazy bastard decreed.

"Alright, I forgive you. I'm now granting you permission to speak. Not to attract attention, just to answer my questions."

Benson nodded again to show he understood.

"You aren't the man I talked to on the phone, are you?"

"No," Benson replied.

"What's your name, detective?"

"Thomas Benson."

"It was very nice meeting you, Detective Thomas Benson. I am sorry about the dumpster. I usually don't do that."

"That's fine, I didn't die but-"

"No, no, that wasn't a question. Shh, be quiet. I'm going to help you now."

The cop wriggled like an over-sized puppy in his arms and Zsasz knew it was time to say good-bye to his new friend. They'd shared an enlightening two minutes, but fun was fun and done was done. Zsasz still had to find his original detective friend, after all.

* * *

Beer averages between four and eight percent alcohol. Grain alcohol—such as Everclear—can be as high as 95% alcohol.

"Fun is fun and done is done" is from the Stephen King story _Riding the Bullet_.

Unfortunately, everyone will have to tune in next time to see what animal Montoya and Bullock found.


	28. Reunited and It Feels So Good

Thanks for the reviews. Good job to all those who guessed the mystery creature. For those who chose the possum, congratulations. For those who didn't know possums ventured into the city, they do.

To see this chapter's challenge, refer to the bottom.

* * *

"I know where I am. I _know_ where I am. _I know where I am_!"

Schiff's overjoyed voice echoed through the Narrows. In an undignified display Crane would have shot him dead for, Thomas jumped for joy like a peppy cheerleader and continued to repeat his glorious chant. He had found his way, he was no longer lost, and he would be home in time for breakfast!

The landmark that had triggered Schiff's memory wasn't anything as mundane as a street sign or specific storefront. It was an unmistakable bit of urban artwork. In less proper terms, it was a piece of X-rated graffiti that had obviously been born from the mind of a sexual deviant who had little idea what female anatomy looked like or what color it was. Even Thomas' scattered brain couldn't fail to remember something so hideously perverse and surreal.

Reigning in his excitement, Schiff stopped prancing around; he still had a few blocks to go and dancing around in front of a rainbow billboard of pornography was getting weird. Leaving behind the graffiti, Thomas continued up the street.

As he got closer to home, the nervousness he'd all but forgotten about decided to make a reappearance. It started as a knotted feeling in his gut that quickly intensified until he could feel himself sweating despite the coolness of the night. Schiff's happiness at seeing Dr. Crane again was slowly replaced by the fear of what he'd actually find when he arrived.

If he opened the door and was greeted by a satisfied Dr. Crane who wasn't mad at his schizophrenic pet, that would make Schiff's night. If he was greeted by Scarecrow, that would be less positive. If he was greeted by a Scarecrow who pointed to two dead bodies and demanded Schiff march right back out the door and dispose of said corpses, that would be horrible.

Speaking of dead bodies, Thomas wondered what fate had befallen Dr. Crane's test subjects. Not every person Dr. Crane used in his experiments ended up dead. Schiff knew he was proof of that. Some just ended up insane and were let go in a random part of Gotham to wander around like zombies until the police corralled them. In the case of these two, however, Thomas suspected the worst—especially for the cabbie. Scarecrow had _hated_ him, and what Scarecrow hated, Scarecrow destroyed. That was why Schiff was always doing his best to stay on Scarecrow's good side.

"I don't want to touch dead people. I want to sleep," Schiff said.

There was no way to determine if sleep or corpse-hiding was in his future without finding Dr. Crane. Hoping for the best but trying to tamp down his optimism, Thomas walked ever closer to his final destination.

Neither dead nor insane, Joe was on the very cusp of total victory. He had a gun, an actual decent, threatening weapon! The Scarecrow might have had a potent chemical cocktail on hand, but there was no way he'd come close enough to use it while the cabbie had such superior firepower. Even the most lethal poison in the world was useless if it couldn't be delivered into a victim.

"Yeah, how do you like being in my position? It sucks, doesn't it? You don't even have to tell me; I know all about it," Joe said.

"You don't have the guts to shoot me. You're a coward," Scarecrow hissed.

"I might not be homicidal enough to kill you, but that doesn't mean I won't hurt you. Being shot is not fun. Take it from me, I have experience," Joe said. His own gunshot wound no longer hurt—its individual pain couldn't register among the overall ache that had settled over Joe's body—but he remembered the hot streak of pain well enough.

Scarecrow snorted. "That _experience_ is exactly what will stop you from even shooting to injure. Like I said before, you're a pathetic, self-sacrificing, bleeding heart. You won't leave a stranger to save yourself and you can't even bring yourself to hurt me. I made you scream in fear and you stand there with the gun shaking in your hand."

"Buddy, do you think reminding me of all that shit is really the best thing to do right now? I'm the one with the gun and you're the one it's aimed at. I'll do it, I will, I'll put a nice hole in you."

"And that's how I know you're bluffing. You're telling me you will do it instead of just doing it. It's a telltale sign you won't do it."

"That doesn't make any sense. If I say I'm going to do it, it's a warning. I'm not bluffing," Joe replied.

Ignoring the gun pointed at his chest, Scarecrow took a step towards Joe. The cabbie faltered, giving Scarecrow further confidence.

"One thing I—well, Johnny—learned soon after taking up a position at Arkham was how to tell which patients were serious about killing themselves, and which ones wanted attention. The ones that made an enormous fuss over it never did the deed. You are threatening and posturing, and it shows your insincerity. If you meant to do it, you would have," Scarecrow said.

Joe understood what the Scarecrow was getting at. People who talked didn't act, and people who acted didn't flap their gums first. Joe knew which category he currently fit into and it wasn't the category that escaped with its life.

There was only one thing he could do to convince the Scarecrow how serious he was: pull the trigger and make the bastard bleed. Knowing and doing, however, were entirely separate entities.

His inability to intimidate the Scarecrow was beginning to grate on Joe's nerves. He was still disgusted with himself for feeling guilt over kicking the Scarecrow, and this new weakness didn't improve his self-image. Joe couldn't fathom why he was so useless with the gun. He wasn't entirely inexperienced when it came to firearms—twenty or so years ago he'd gone hunting with a friend and had managed to shoot an unsuspecting birch tree _and_ a clump of grass—but he was acting like a doomsday weapon resided in his hands.

"Since you obviously aren't going to use it, why don't you give the gun to me? I'm sure to put it to better use," Scarecrow said.

"Tell me you'll shoot me in the guts and then shoot Danielle while I bleed to death on the floor," Joe said.

Scarecrow raised his eyebrows. "You want me to tell you I'll shoot you in the guts and then shoot Danielle? Why in the hell-"

"Because then I can get pissed off enough to convince myself it's the only way to save her," Joe replied.

Before Scarecrow could ask if Joe had suddenly starting bleeding in his brain, the cabbie pointed the gun towards the ground and fired it. There was a bang loud enough to leave Joe's ears ringing and the bitter odor of burnt gunpowder lingered in the air. Scarecrow had apparently been struck, because he yelped, threw down his beloved lethal poison so he could grab his foot, and hopped about like a deranged rabbit.

It took a few seconds for Joe's hearing to come back, and his first sounds were the enraged rant of the slightly injured Scarecrow. Still perched on one leg like a stork, the villain was mad as hell and letting Joe know it.

"You imbecile! You insipid son of a bitch, I'll tear your lungs out and feed them to you! You shot me in the foot, you goat, in the foot!"

"Get the antidote or I'll shoot you somewhere else," Joe replied. He knew he wouldn't fire the gun again unless Scarecrow was attempting to excavate his lungs, but he could hopefully keep Scarecrow from knowing that.

"What part of 'in the foot' did not register? I will not hop down to the bathroom like this! I am half-way crippled!" Scarecrow howled.

"You keep the antidote in the bathroom?"

"No, it's only there because I needed the first aid kit and… Damn it, how did you make me do that?"

"So the antidote's in the first aid kit in the bathroom? I think I can find that. Come on, doc, I'm not leaving you here with her," Joe said.

After being poked several times with the gun, Scarecrow put his foot back on the ground. Despite the display he'd just put on, the wound was hardly worth a Band-Aid. Joe had been careful with his aim and the bullet had done far more damage to the Scarecrow's shoe than to his body. Hoping the cabbie would be stupid enough to let down his guard, Scarecrow feigned a far worse limp than the situation called for.

"Come on, you're not a lame horse. Cut the bullshit," Joe said when he saw the Scarecrow hobbling as though his tibia had snapped in two.

"My foot is bleeding, thanks to you. You have no right to tell me how badly it hurts. It's my foot and its pain receptors tell my brain what it feels like," Scarecrow said.

"Your, uh, pain receptors are sissies then, because there's no way it hurts that bad. You did a whole hell of a lot worse to me and I didn't cry like a baby."

"Your brain hasn't evolved enough to feel pain properly. You're like a grasshopper."

Deciding the antidote was worth putting up with Scarecrow's pitiful limping, Joe prodded the psychopath along. The trip to the door, which should have taken about ten seconds, took seven times longer. Scarecrow was gentlemanly enough to open the door for Joe and both of them stepped out into the hallway.

For the first time since his nightmare began, Joe was out of the horrible, white-walled room. At the end of the hallway was the door to the stairwell. It stood propped open just as it had when Joe and Danielle had first been herded through it; apparently, the Scarecrow was confident enough in his abilities to subdue his test subjects he hadn't bothered to lock the door. The staircase and the freedom it represented beckoned Joe and he had to shake off the desire to escape. His job wasn't done yet.

"I won't stop you," Scarecrow said.

"I know. You couldn't, even if you wanted to. I've got to stop myself."

Tuning out the siren song of escape, Joe focused on keeping the gun pointed at the Scarecrow's back. He would never think of shooting even an irredeemable asshole like the Scarecrow in the back, but if he pointed the gun at the floor, Joe didn't think he'd be taken seriously. It was true the Scarecrow didn't look all that worried about being shot dead, but Joe didn't want him to relax any further.

"What's in the rest of these rooms? Your collection of ladies' lingerie and Disney movies?" Joe asked.

"Don't be absurd."

"Is it your stables? Where'd you get that horse, anyway?"

"Do I look stupid enough to lead a horse up two flights of stairs? I can't believe an idiot like you has me in this position; I'll never forgive myself. You make me want to hurt children."

"You're kind of melodramatic. Anybody ever tell you that?" Joe asked.

"Don't speak to me anymore."

"No problem. Just get your ass moving and get that antidote. I want to see the sunrise as a free man."

"You'll see the sunrise…from your grave."

"That didn't even make sense."

Scarecrow, not by any means a patient or tolerant creature at the best of times, was reaching the furthest limits of his self-control. He had been kicked around, his own gun had been used on him, and Joe's voice was like a vuvuzela in his ears that never stopped playing the same droning, moronic chords. He wanted to kill the cabbie, to scream in frustration, to see something large, impressive and beautiful engulfed in flames. Since he was denied any of these pleasures, all he could do was open the door to his room and head for the bathroom.

Much like the room he kept his test subjects in, Scarecrow's actual living quarters were sparsely furnished and the walls were monochromatic. He lived a simple existence and didn't dare to accumulate much in the way of unnecessary possessions—when one was a wanted terrorist, one did not want to weigh one's self down with too much crap. The only truly personal touches seemed to be some well-worn books that had probably been purchased for fifty cents apiece at a used book store.

"It's…clean," Joe said.

"Yes, it is. Don't foul it up."

With Joe following close behind, Scarecrow limped to the bathroom. This room was significantly less clean and orderly. Supplies from the first aid kit had been tossed all over the place. The floor, sink, trash can, and even the toilet were littered with medical supplies.

"I take it you did this. The doctor part of you probably shit himself when he saw the mess you made. How's that work, anyway, a pig and a neat freak sharing the same body?" Joe asked.

"Better than you can imagine," Scarecrow replied.

"I'm sure, because I can't imagine it at all. I'd rather live with rats than live with somebody who painted everything white."

"You'd fit right in," Scarecrow muttered as he threw even more supplies from the first aid kit. Bandages, sterile gauze, a pair of scissors (Scarecrow would have loved to ram them into Joe's throat), and unidentified packets of pills joined the general disarray on the floor.

"Was any of that stuff Tylenol?" Joe asked.

"I wasn't paying attention. Here, this is what your wanted so badly. Take it and get out of my sight." Scarecrow revealed a small vial and a syringe.

Instead of taking the offered items and going on his merry way, Joe swore. "That's the antidote, huh? Damn it, I was hoping it could be something she'd just breathe in. I am sick to death of needles, I really am."

"Unfortunate. I never could get anywhere with an aerosol antidote. I can't say I didn't try."

"Shit. Well, what choice do I have? Bring the antidote and I'll have to hold her down or something," Joe said.

"That should be amusing. Tell me, when she beats your head in because she mistakes you for a monster, do you want me to put her down like a sick cat or do you want me to let her live a little longer?"

"I want you to shut your head and walk."

Obediently shutting his head but keeping a smirk in place, Scarecrow allowed Joe to lead him from the room. The cabbie and the crazy walked back towards the room that held Danielle. Scarecrow's limp had miraculously all but disappeared. He saw no point in dragging his feet. Watching Joe try in vain to secure Danielle would be a real treat. If the cabbie sustained some horrible injury in the process, all the better.

Just as they reached the door, Scarecrow paused and turned his head towards the stairs. He could have sworn he heard something that sounded suspiciously like the heavy emergency exit door swinging shut.

"Doctor Crane! I'm back, I'm still alive, phone's gone, too! My neck hurts, you want to see it? Doctor Crane?"

Schiff's hurried footsteps echoed through the stairwell and in only a minute the schizophrenic appeared on the landing. Joe and Scarecrow stared at him and he stared back. Neither party knew how to break the silence, so they let it continue unabated until Thomas' short attention span got the better of him.

"Doctor Crane, what's happening?"

"You're going to help me or I'm going to kill your buddy," Joe said, bringing the gun up and pointing it at Scarecrow's head. The cabbie figured if he couldn't bluff a crazy man, he might as well give up.

"Okay, I'll help. I'll do it."

Thank God for small favors and the easily manipulated mentally ill.

* * *

The challenge for this chapter: find the name of a _South Park _character.


	29. A Little Luck

Thanks for the reviews! I send my love to you all. Bask in it, for it is good.

* * *

Detective Stephens sighed. Things were not going the way he'd hoped. Neither the phone nor Zsasz had turned up, Bullock had become too distracted by an obese possum to be of any use, and Benson was paranoid about phantom bees. Just once, Stephens wished the police could catch a well-earned break. It wasn't like they didn't try, didn't bust their asses day in day out to keep Gotham from imploding. It was just that for all their hard work, results were minimal and thanks were sparse.

Lowering the radio from his ear, Stephens decided to see if Benson was back from investigating the mysterious buzzing. He looked into the alley and felt uneasy. His partner was nowhere in sight; not even Benson's flashlight could be seen, and the beam was practically bright enough to be visible from orbit.

"Benson, where are you?"

There was no reply and unease began to transform into fear. Stephens returned the radio to his belt and took out his own flashlight. He shined it into the alley and found no sign of the missing detective.

"If you're thinking this is a good time to play some kind of joke on me, it isn't. I'm not afraid to kick your ass and deal with Internal Affairs later. They don't scare me."

The chances Benson was holed up somewhere in the alley with a ridiculous grin on his face were so low Stephens all but discounted the idea. While Benson still watched cartoons, he was the kind of guy who could buckle down and be serious when it was called for. He was smart enough to know the time for pranks was not when you were hunting down a serial killer.

"Last chance, Benson, or I'm coming to find you. You better not have done something stupid."

Receiving no answer, Stephens entered the alley. He kept his free hand on the butt of his gun; despite his twenty years of service to the police department, he was just as quick on the draw now as he had been as a rookie. The years hadn't dulled Stephens' reflexes and if anyone got wise with him, he would be ready to deal with them.

From farther down the alley came the sudden sounds of a scuffle. Stephens shined his flashlight towards the source of the noise. A dumpster blocked the light and prevented the detective from seeing who or what was fighting.

Before Stephens could step towards the dumpster, Benson burst out from behind it. The frantic detective scrambled towards his partner. He had hardly made it three steps when something almost unnaturally fast grabbed him and yanked him backwards.

"Jerry! Jesus Christ, he's going to kill me!" Benson screamed.

"No, he doesn't listen; I'm not going to _kill_ him. I'm going to _help_ him," Benson's attacker said.

"He's nuts, he's crazy, he thinks cutting my throat is good for me or something! Jerry, please, shoot him. I don't want to die, I don't, but he tells me I do."

"Zsasz, I'm assuming that's you back there. Let him go. He's not the man you were talking to," Stephens said.

"I know that. He told me when I asked him. He was behaving so well, and then he tried that last stunt. He has a problem with standing still."

Benson fidgeted and found a knife at his neck. That solved his little issues with restlessness.

Parroting his partner, Stephens also went rigid. His hand still rested on the butt of his service weapon, but he didn't dare draw it. Any movement, especially one as conspicuous as pulling a gun from its holster, wouldn't be missed and wouldn't be tolerated.

Besides, Stephens had next to nothing to shoot at. Zsasz seemed to have molded his body so it hid perfectly behind Benson. The only thing exposed enough to warrant a bullet was the arm that held the knife pressed against Benson's vulnerable throat. Detective Stephens knew shooting that would only result in Benson dying in a bloody fashion. The high-powered round could miss Zsasz entirely and punch a hole in the young detective, it could pierce the killer's arm and continue on into Benson, or the knife could jerk reflexively straight across Benson's neck. Stephens refused to risk any of those outcomes.

"There's no need to threaten him like that. I know you mean business. Drop the knife, let him go, and we'll talk," Detective Stephens said.

Zsasz tittered. "You must have more respect for me than that, detective. If I were to do as you asked, you'd beat me into the ground, wouldn't you?"

Damn straight, Stephens thought. Saying it aloud, however, would sign Benson's death warrant. He had to play it smart if he wanted his partner back in one breathing piece.

"I don't do police brutality, Zsasz. I'll take you in by the books, no excessive force."

"Are all cops such dirty little liars?" the killer asked.

"What? I'm not lying to you. If you surrender, I won't do anything but arrest you. I told you over the phone that-"

"That you'd be the one slapping cuffs on me, yes, I remember. Do you remember what I told you?" Zsasz asked.

"That you'd kill me."

"If you don't stop lying to me, it won't be only you. It will be poor Detective Thomas Benson, and then it will be you. And then it will be as many of your friends as I can take. You don't want that, do you?"

Stephens felt anger coil inside him. It was one thing to threaten him; it was another thing to threaten other police officers. In his career, Stephens had seen far too many good cops wind up dead, and he was not going to lose one more officer to some second-rate maniac like Victor Zsasz.

He just needed a plan, some way to get Benson away from Zsasz. As they were positioned, there was nothing Stephens could do to save his partner. He couldn't shoot without guaranteeing Benson's demise. He had no choice but to bide his time, keep the psycho happy, and pray Zsasz made a mistake.

Feeling even more impotent than Detective Stephens, Scarecrow glowered at Schiff. Any person who wasn't completely blind to body language would have realized the cabbie had been bluffing; since the schizophrenic was oblivious to what his own body was doing half the time, he'd fallen for Joe's pathetic charade. Scarecrow wanted to grab Thomas by the shoulders and give him a good shake.

Thomas Schiff, oblivious to the death-glares he was receiving from the Scarecrow, crept down the hall until he was standing near Joe. Still pointing the gun at Scarecrow's head, Joe told Schiff to open the door and get in the room. The schizophrenic nodded and obeyed. He entered the room and waited for further instructions.

Scarecrow, closely followed by Joe, entered the room behind him. Schiff shifted from one foot to the other. He was nervous and antsy and he wished that gun wasn't aimed at Doctor Crane's head. Despite all the fear Schiff had for Scarecrow, he managed genuine concern and loyalty for Crane.

"Alright, I've got a job for you and you're probably not going to like it. Too bad. You're going to do it or this guy's going to be chewing bubblegum with his forehead," Joe said.

"Is it cleaning the toilets?" Schiff asked.

Joe couldn't help himself. He snorted laughter, tried to hide it, and ended up braying like a donkey. Thomas stared at him and Scarecrow sent the cabbie a glare that would have killed a man with a weak constitution.

"I'm sorry; it's not even that funny. It's just, God, I can still laugh and that's a relief," Joe said.

"Am I cleaning the toilets, though?" Schiff asked again.

"No, you're not. You see Danielle over there? Your friend screwed her up and now both of you are going to fix her."

Schiff looked at Danielle and recognized her condition. The tightly drawn body, the spasmodic shudders; he knew the physical effects of fear toxin very well. Memories he wished he did not possess barged to the forefront of his mind and the schizophrenic felt his own body react as though he'd been given a very mild dose of poison.

Joe noticed the trembling that had overtaken Schiff and almost reached out a hand to pat the poor bastard on the back. He decided against it because he wasn't sure what effect touching the schizophrenic would have. For all Joe knew, Schiff would leap three feet in the air, scream, and bolt from the room.

"It's a shitty way to be and you're going to help her," Joe said.

"How?" Schiff asked.

"You're going to hold her so your demented friend can give her the antidote. You're not a real big guy, but aren't crazy people supposed to be stronger than normal people?"

Scarecrow didn't bother to respond. Joe knew so little about psychology it was insulting.

"You want me to just grab her?"

"If you can, yeah. You've just gotta hang on long enough for this asshole—" Joe pointed at Scarecrow "—to do his job."

Thomas took a nervous step towards Danielle. She remained in the same tight ball and made no signs of movement.

"She's a girl, not a bear trap. Get over there," Joe said.

Schiff took another petite step and Joe and Scarecrow sighed in unison. Joe wanted out and he was not going to wait for a nutcase to shuffle his way across the room. Scarecrow simply had no patience.

"Look, I've just had the worst night of my life, and I'm betting she's in the same boat. Could you _please_ move a little faster?" Joe asked.

Sucking in a deep breath and fortifying himself, Schiff crossed the room in seven wide steps. Scarecrow followed after him but hung back a bit. He knew there would soon be a battle going on, and he wanted no part in it.

"Should I just jump on her or something?"

Danielle was not some dainty little flower that was going to be flattened if Schiff dived on her. Still, telling a maniac to jump on a defenseless woman seemed like an immoral—and utterly bizarre—thing to do. Joe wasn't sure if he wanted to act so drastically. Maybe the little weirdo could just grab her.

Then Joe remembered how Danielle had flailed at him when he'd touched her. There was no way she'd go quietly.

"Go for it. Shit, I can't believe this…"

Schiff didn't so much as jump as fall on top of Danielle. As expected, she instantly uncoiled from her protective ball, let out a shriek that could have caused permanent hearing loss, and began to fight her attacker. Before he could even register what was going on, Thomas had been kicked in the gut and slapped across the face.

His innards and face both hurting, Schiff had no idea how to handle Danielle. She'd already writhed away from him and he wasn't eager to jump in for more. Trying to hold down the woman was like trying to get a firm grasp on an octopus. Between the wriggling and the seemingly endless supply of thrashing limbs, there seemed to be no way to restrain her.

"Try kicking her in the head," Scarecrow suggested.

"Shut your mouth before I kick your rotten teeth in," Joe hissed.

Scarecrow ignored Joe's growing frustration and focused on the great entertainment value of the one-sided fight. Too afraid of failing—unlike Scarecrow, Thomas was intimidated by the gun—to back off or give up, the schizophrenic went back for more. He had no idea how he was going to avoid getting beaten until his whole body was one uninterrupted, throbbing bruise, but he figured there had to be a way. His opponent was a _girl_, albeit one strung out on fear toxin, and if he lost to her he would never hear the end of it from Scarecrow.

There was no kind way to put it: Schiff was an awkward, uncoordinated, ungainly fighter. The Joker hadn't hired him because of his blitzing karate skills, and Crane hadn't kept him around for protection. His physical abilities impressed no one.

Despite their shortcomings, sometimes even people like Thomas Schiff, who've been dealt unwinnable hands their entire lives, get lucky. Sometimes, fate throws the most unlucky people an ace just when they need it. By sheer luck or a kind turn of the stars, Schiff managed to get the upper hand.

When he'd tried to grab Danielle's kicking leg, he'd been knocked off balance by the limb instead. He floundered and ended up landing on her outstretched arm. Schiff was just heavy enough to keep the arm pinned, despite Danielle's desperate attempts to get free.

"Hey, that's your cue, doc. Get your ass in there!" Joe prodded Scarecrow.

"I'd really rather not," Scarecrow replied.

"I don't give a shit! Do it, or I'll come over there and knock this against your head," Joe said, motioning with the gun.

"If you insist."

Hating Joe for defeating him, hating Schiff for managing to do something right for a change, and hating himself for allowing the first two events to occur, Scarecrow crouched down next to Danielle. She saw him and promptly began to scream. She also redoubled her efforts to remove Schiff from her arm.

"Hold her as still as possible. She jerks at the wrong moment and that ape over there may blame me if blood starts spurting," Scarecrow said.

"She really, really hates me," Schiff responded.

"So do I. Do as I said."

With all the professionalism and disinterest of a doctor administering a flu shot, Scarecrow injected the antidote into Danielle's straining arm. She howled and jerked and Schiff felt like he was trying to ride a raging bull.

"Get off her arm, dolt. You're impeding blood flow," Scarecrow said.

Thomas kindly removed his weight from Danielle's arm. He was nearly punched in the crotch by a desperate fist for his obedience.

"How long is that stuff going to take?" Joe asked. Danielle was still wild-eyed, panting, and struggling.

"Six hours," Scarecrow said.

"What? Holy shit, six hours, are you serious?"

"No. It shouldn't be more than another thirty seconds."

As Scarecrow had predicted, a few seconds later Danielle stopped struggling. She went completely limp and her panicked breathing began to even out.

"Is she okay now?" Joe asked.

"Why don't you find out?" Scarecrow said.

Joe approached Danielle with caution. He tried to keep his optimism in check, so if she started shrieking and trying to hit him, he'd be prepared for the disappointment. He wanted to believe she was fine, but he didn't trust the Scarecrow not to have played some disgusting trick.

"Danielle? Can you hear me? You know who I am? It's Joe."

Danielle's eyelids fluttered open and she tilted her face towards Joe. Her features were drawn and haggard, she had eyes like someone who had just wandered in off a battlefield, and she looked exhausted to the point of total collapse. But she was alive and in control of herself.

"Joe? That really you?" Danielle peeped.

Joe's only response was to burst into tears. He had never been happier to hear a person's voice in his entire life and he felt absolutely no shame in his reaction. Some things were worth crying over, and this was one of them.

* * *

The answer to last chapter's challenge was "General Disarray", the sidekick of Professor Chaos. Alas, I have no new challenge for this chapter. Very sad.


	30. Time Runs Short

Thanks so much for the reviews. Your _interesting_ responses are always fun and bring me smiles and laugher.

To WTFWonder: I don't think Joe's all that much of a sniper but it's certainly one way to solve Zsasz-related problems.

See the bottom for the new challenge. It's exciting!

* * *

This was not the first time Danielle had seen a grown man cry—her father had cried when she graduated high school, two ex-boyfriends had cried when she broke up with them, and she'd once seen a man total his obscenely expensive sports car and then bawl as a tow-truck removed the wreck—but seeing Joe cry was nothing like her other experiences. The boyfriends and the bad driver had been pathetic and she'd fully expected her dad to practically flood the school. But Joe was different; he wasn't pitiful or embarrassing or anything like that.

Because her mind was so tired, it took Danielle nearly a minute before she realized what, asides from the tears, was different about Joe. His hands were free and he was holding a gun. The weapon certainly wasn't his and that meant it must have belonged to the Scarecrow. Danielle put two and two together and her brain reached a conclusion so sweet she almost didn't dare believe it.

"Joe, did you _win_?"

The cabbie sniffed and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. Then he nodded.

"I guess so. We've still gotta get out of here, but I handed Scarecrow's ass to him."

Scarecrow bristled like an angry porcupine. The cabbie might have gotten extremely lucky—win-the-lottery lucky—but he had _not_ won by any more than the slimmest of margins. If the situation had been allowed to play out again, the wretched dog would have been deader than the Latin language.

"We're really going to get out of here? You really beat him? You aren't dead?" Danielle asked.

"I feel like I was hit by a bus but I'm not dead. Is that what you saw? When he poisoned you?" Joe said.

Danielle shivered and Joe wished he'd never asked about her experiences. His own hallucinations would probably give him nightmares until he was old enough to move to Florida and golf all day. She'd been given a higher dose and no doubt the things she'd seen would have made Joe's visions seem like a room full of puppies and kittens by comparison.

"Sorry, forget I opened my stupid trap. We're leaving but first let me get those handcuffs off."

Joe knelt down with infinite care. His knees and back hardly knew how to bend anymore and it was going to take a lot more than a few aspirin to straighten them out. He couldn't worry about his failing body right then, though. He still had to get Danielle on her feet and then down the stairs and to the cab.

"How'd you get the keys?" Danielle asked.

"I had to rough up a certain dick, but he finally handed them over," Joe said.

Joe put the gun on the floor. Multi-tasking with just one functioning hand wasn't possible. He couldn't both hold the gun and get the keys from his pocket at the same time.

Scarecrow saw Joe drop the gun and considered attacking him. The weapon's proximity to the cabbie's hand made him wary. Joe had to reach over all of nine inches to grab the gun and do far worse than shoot Scarecrow in the shoe. Scarecrow had several feet of floor to cross and he wasn't in any better shape or any faster than Joe was. His own back still ached and bending down too quickly to snap up the gun would probably result in horrible, stabbing pain.

A few seconds later, Danielle's cuffs went sliding across the floor. Her hands were no longer tethered and the first thing she wanted to do was give Joe a proper hug. Her current position on the floor made hugging impossible, but she mentally promised to give Joe the hug of his life as soon as she was able.

"Do you think you can sit up?" Joe asked.

"I think so."

Danielle's body disagreed with her brain on this point. Her initial positivism faded when not one of her muscles responded to the command to move. It felt like she was completely paralyzed; her arms and legs refused to do any more than twitch, no matter how hard she concentrated.

"Maybe not," Danielle amended.

Joe turned to the Scarecrow. "What the hell's wrong with her?"

"A side-effect of the antidote," Scarecrow replied.

"What the hell kind of side-effect?"

"Muscle weakness, obviously."

"Why didn't you mention that something like that could happen?" Joe asked.

Scarecrow hobbled over to his comfortable chair and plopped down. The cabbie's indignation was beginning to wear on him and standing was too much of an effort, anyway. If he was going to be asked ridiculous questions, he was going to answer them from a cushy, seated position.

"The side-effects vary by the individual. Just like with any medication. Think of the millions of commercials for pharmaceuticals you've no doubt seen while you wasted your life in front of the television," Scarecrow said.

"Nausea, vomiting, headache, dizziness upon standing, change in mood or behavior, erections lasting longer than four hours-" Thomas said before Scarecrow mercifully cut him off.

"Yes, those side-effects, thank you. You can't remember where you leave your clothes, but you remember Viagra commercials," Scarecrow said.

Joe could have kicked the wall. No matter what he did, not matter how hard he tried or how much he had to endure, there was always one more snag ready to trip him up.

"How long will she be like that? If you say six hours, so help me God, I'll come over there and knock your head off."

Danielle felt her breath catch in her throat. Six hours didn't sound like a particularly long time, not if you were sleeping or playing an addictive video game, but it stretched out into a near infinity if you couldn't move anything except your neck, mouth, and fingers. Considering she was nearly paralyzed on the floor of the Scarecrow's nefarious laboratory didn't make the time go any faster.

"Regardless of how long it takes, knocking my head off won't help. Her brain and body, as I'm sure you can imagine, are still scrambled. Consider how your coordination would be after a night of drinking. Then imagine that same night being haunted by your worst fears," Scarecrow said.

Joe knew a thing or two about drunken staggering and how difficult it could be to get off the couch the next morning. Considering the Scarecrow's poison was thousands of times worse than the meanest alcohol, it was no wonder Danielle didn't have herself in order. That didn't mean Joe liked the situation any more or hated the Scarecrow any less.

"If you're keeping your head, use it and fix this problem. Your shit did this to her and you're going to find some way to make it better," Joe said.

"No, I don't want him coming anywhere near me! I'll try again, just give me a second," Danielle said.

It took more than a second, but Danielle finally felt she had enough energy to make another attempt at sitting. Her fear of the Scarecrow doing anything else to her propelled her body into motion. Willpower and the desire to avoid all future contact with the Scarecrow combined to overcome the body's weakness.

"Remarkable rate of recovery," Scarecrow muttered.

"Hear that? Even the psychopathic nerd is impressed," Joe said.

Danielle grinned. She was halfway up; therefore, she was halfway to giving Joe the hug he so rightly deserved. And once she hugged him, there would be nothing left to do except leave the room, navigate down two stories without falling on the stairs and breaking their necks, and then driving until they found either a phone or a hospital.

"You want to really show that asshole how tough you are? Stand up. I'll give you a hand," Joe offered.

"I don't want you to put down that gun. I can manage on my own. I can do this."

Danielle gritted her teeth and focused on how good it would feel to spit in the Scarecrow's face for all he'd done to her. That vindictiveness encouraged her legs and they obeyed orders. She pushed off the floor and her knees held steady. Her legs shook a little but Joe's moral support kept Danielle from falling.

"I told you I could do it," Danielle said.

Testing her strength, Danielle took a shaky step and then another. Her third step was stronger and soon she was walking without any hint of weakness. Joe watched her easy, painless movements with longing; he didn't think he'd be able to move that freely ever again. Scarecrow watched Danielle with unadulterated hate. Compared to him, the damned woman moved with the grace of a dancer and it was disgusting. Scowling at her, Scarecrow sincerely hoped Danielle contracted a severe case of trench foot that would require amputation.

"I think I'm going to need your help to get down the stairs. Here I was worried you'd be the one limping around. I finally got a good surprise," Joe said.

Certain she could make it to the bottom of the stairs, Danielle wondered if Joe could do the same. She hadn't exactly taken stock of every injury he'd received since she'd been gassed—she was still half-sure she'd look at Joe and he'd look as he had in her hallucinations—but she knew he wasn't in top shape. The slowness in his gait, the obvious pain when he'd crouched down to unlock her handcuffs, the way he'd broken down and cried, they were all signs he'd been facing his own demons.

"Those stairs won't know what hit them. Come on, Joe. I'm sure your baby misses you."

With Danielle leading the way and Joe following behind like some old, nearly crippled mutt, the pair made for the door. Danielle stopped dead only two feet from the exit. Joe paused and wondered what was happening now. Was she suffering a relapse, was she going to suddenly collapse or start shrieking again?

"I need to get something from my suitcase."

Joe could have groaned. Whatever it was, it could be replaced as soon as they were free. It was not worth shitting around for unless it was some life-saving medicine Danielle would die without in the next ten seconds.

Joe kept watch on Scarecrow and Schiff as Danielle ruffled through the clutter of her suitcase. The contents had been turned inside out and jumbled back together and it took her a while to find what she was looking for.

"My grandma's birthday card and present," Danielle explained. "I didn't want him to have them."

Joe felt the need to amend his earlier thought. Life-saving medication or birthday gifts for sweet old grannies were both legitimate reasons to linger.

"How about your license or anything with your name and address on it?" Joe asked.

"Taken care of," Danielle replied. She'd kept the most essential items from her wallet—her driver's license and her debit card—in her pants pocket. The two cards were too small to make any sort of lump or otherwise reveal themselves. They were also all she would need to survive should something—like a plane crash, robbery, or random natural disaster—happen to her luggage.

The presents safely in tow, Danielle finally headed for the door. Just before she left the room, she turned back to the Scarecrow. He fixed her with a hideous glare.

"If you want to dress up in my bras, feel free to. You'd probably look good in the red one," Danielle said.

The Scarecrow's mouth fell open and Schiff burst into laughter. Satisfied that she'd gotten in the final word, Danielle completed the first stage of the escape. Joe, overjoyed that Danielle had found her sarcastic side, joined her in the hall. Together, they walked towards the stairwell. Freedom was waiting for them; the only thing in their way was two flights of stairs.

Freedom for Detective Benson was much further away. He knew his time was running out because the knife at his throat was inexorably biting deeper into him. At first, the blade had been resting on his skin, frightening but not painful; now it was to the point of drawing blood. The knife was a tangible indicator of how close Zsasz was from abandoning self-control and offing his victim.

"Can you ease off a little?" Benson asked. He had just felt the first rivulet of blood trickle down his throat and he was terrified the rest of his fluid would soon be following suit, but in a far gorier and lethal manner.

"Hmm? You're supposed to be quiet. Your partner's trying to find a way to save you, and you aren't helping his concentration any. You aren't helping mine, either. If I can't focus, my hand just might slip and…" The honed blade slid across Benson's throat, not deep enough to reach any major arteries, but deep enough to scare the hell out of the detective.

In the immediate aftermath of the knife traversing his neck, Benson's mind went into panic-mode. He was sure his throat had just been cut open and he was going to be dead from blood loss in the next thirty seconds. His hands instinctively flew to his throat, as though they could somehow hold back the lethal flood.

It took Benson a few seconds to clear his mind enough to realize his hands were not soaked with his life-blood and he was not hemorrhaging all over the alley. There was a thin line of blood to mark where the knife had cut, but it was no deeper or more dangerous than a shaving nick. Benson was too horrified, his heart racing like a hummingbird's, to be embarrassed at his desperate reaction. He removed his hands from his throat before he could accidentally asphyxiate himself and dropped them down to his side.

Detective Stephens realized he had been almost as horrified as his partner had been. He'd been holding his breath and his hand had clamped down on his gun so hard his fingers had already begun to cramp. When it became apparent Zsasz hadn't turned the alleyway into a slaughterhouse, Stephens released his pent-up breath.

"Next time, detectives, I may not be able to restrain myself."

If the situation wasn't urgent enough before, Stephens knew time had grown even sparser. Benson was a human Chatty Cathy, only he didn't require a pull of his string to make him talk. When he was happy, he talked. When he was angry, he talked. When he was held hostage by a serial killer, he talked. That inability to shut up was going to tick Zsasz off and then Benson was never going to have the chance to talk again.

What the hell was he supposed to do? He couldn't wait much longer: Benson would open his mouth and then Zsasz would open the poor kid's throat. He couldn't shoot Zsasz. He didn't dare go for his radio and summon backup. Benson's fate rested solely on Stephens' shoulders and the head attached to those shoulders was horribly short on good ideas.

"I've never had the opportunity to do this to a policeman. I've wanted to for some time—cops deserve to be released from their lives more than most—but the chance never arose. You must understand how eager I am, detective," Zsasz said.

Stephens understood what was going on. Zsasz was trying to provoke him. The killer was encouraging him to take some sort of action, though what exact outcome Zsasz wanted was difficult to decipher. Did he want to kill Benson and then die when Stephens shot him in retaliation? Was that what he was after, cop-assisted suicide?

No, Stephens decided, Zsasz didn't want to die. Though the detective couldn't see the madman's face, he was sure the killer was smiling. The bastard just wanted others to die.

Others, starting with Benson. Stephens wouldn't allow it, couldn't allow it. His partner was sixteen years younger than he was. It was one of the most mismatched partnerships on the force, but somehow it worked. Despite Benson's bee hysteria, and his yapping, and his cartoons, Stephens liked having him around, enjoyed working with him. The kid didn't deserve to die like this, nobody did, but especially not someone who bathed daily in the serendipity of a Tom and a Jerry ending up together.

"Zsasz?" Stephens asked.

"Yes, detective?"

"How would you feel about a trade?"

* * *

Challenge for this chapter: what's the worst side-effect you've ever heard during a TV commercial? I think Chantix, the anti-smoking drug's possible suicide side-effects are quite bad.


	31. Ironies and Elevators

Thanks for the reviews! They were delicious. Eh, I mean pleasant.

As for last chapter's challenge, the majority of the horrible side-effects seemed to involve either death or loss of bowel control. Both very, very horrible. You know where to look for the new fun, delightful challenge.

* * *

Scarecrow felt like he was trying to keep his cool while his hand was being pressed in a waffle iron. The open door mocked him, Schiff's clueless expression infuriated him, and the knowledge that he, the Scarecrow, had lost to a cab driver drove him insane. It was beyond contemptible, all of it. The more Scarecrow obsessed over it, the angrier he became.

He had to funnel his hatred towards something or he'd probably spontaneously combust. The cabbie and the smart-mouthed bitch were beyond his reach, unless one of them happened to fall on the stairs and snap a leg. Scarecrow wasn't in the mood for taking responsibility for his actions or sorting through his anger issues, so turning the hate inward was also discarded. That left only one appropriate target, even if only a miniscule amount of the blame could rightfully be pinned on that target.

"Tommy, stop standing there like a rock and make yourself useful," Scarecrow said.

Schiff cringed. He'd suspected Scarecrow and not the more pleasant Dr. Crane had been in control and now he was sure of it. Only Scarecrow ever referred to him as "Tommy"; with Crane, he was always either his full first or last name. Schiff didn't know why Scarecrow called him Tommy and never intended to work up the courage to ask.

"What do you want me to do?" Thomas asked.

Scarecrow touched a finger to his lip and donned a pensive expression. "What do I want you to do? A very tough question."

The schizophrenic knew he was being toyed with and it made him sick with fear. Scarecrow didn't have the decency to just throttle him, or poison him, or throw him out on the street, friendless and shoeless. No, he had to let the uncertainty eat at Schiff, let the anticipation constrict him until he was ready to burst from the emotional pressure.

"I know what I want you to do. In my briefcase there are four vials—always assuming that damned cabbie didn't break any of them. I want you to bring me one of them," Scarecrow said.

"Okay, which one?" Schiff asked.

"Whichever one you feel like."

"You mean I just pick one of them? You don't want a specific one and you won't hurt me if I bring back the wrong one?"

Scarecrow grinned and Schiff swore he felt the temperature of the room plummet. "I'm going to hurt you no matter which one you bring back. How badly is all up to you."

Thomas suddenly felt dizzy. He knew what those four vials contained and he didn't want to go near them. Momentarily, he thought about refusing, about running for the door. He shook these thoughts from his head. Even if he escaped, it would only be a matter of time before he either crossed paths with Scarecrow—there were only so many henchmen crazy enough to work for the psychotic villains of Gotham—or before someone else in a costume killed him. Running might buy him a few weeks or months, but death was imminent if he fled.

Choking back his misery, Schiff shuffled over to the table. Crane's briefcase was in disarray, something the doctor would have never tolerated but something Scarecrow couldn't have cared less about. The schizophrenic turned his head, randomly reached into the briefcase, and grabbed the first vial his fingers touched. He didn't bother looking at the vial he'd chosen; he had no idea how Crane told them apart.

"Don't look so depressed. Only one of the four is fatal," Scarecrow said.

Schiff emitted a noise that was very close to a sob. He was going to die. He'd survived the crazy knife-wielding hobo, he'd survived all the broken glass the Narrows had to offer, he'd even avoided freezing and being eaten by rats. But he wasn't going to survive this. His luck had run out, he just knew it, and he had inadvertently killed himself. He could have stepped in front of one of those speeding police cars and made it quicker.

Police cars. Speeding police cars. He'd forgotten to tell Scarecrow about the police cars!

The schizophrenic jerked abruptly and a seemingly random string of words with absolutely no spaces between them flew from his mouth. Scarecrow hadn't understood a single syllable and he really wasn't in the mood to decode Schiff's ungodly speech pattern.

"If that was supposed to be a plea, I'm going to ignore it," Scarecrow said.

"No, there were police cars, three of them, I saw them in the Narrows, and they were going fast!"

"What?"

"When I was lost, three police cars drove by me. They were speeding and they were going somewhere important."

"Why did you wait until now to tell me? You idiot! How close were they? What direction were they going in?"

A dog could have given better directions than Thomas Schiff, so he stayed mute until Scarecrow got the message. When it became apparent Schiff didn't know if the cars had come from the east or from Alpha Centauri, Scarecrow rose from his seat, stalked over to the quaking schizophrenic, and grabbed him by the shirt collar.

"How long ago did you see them? Give me any kind of estimate. Five minutes, ten minutes, how long?"

"More than fifteen minutes but less than three hours," Schiff replied.

"That's two hours and forty five minutes of difference. Can you be any more precise?" Scarecrow demanded.

"Wasn't three hours, couldn't have been. Less than two hours, no, less than an hour. I was almost home, still lost, but close. Less than an hour but more than fifteen minutes."

"So they don't have a fix on our location. They were probably tracking the phone. What did you do with it? For your sake, you better have taken it far, far away."

Schiff nodded so hard he nearly gave himself whiplash. "I did, I walked, and walked, and then I gave it to a hobo. And he tried to cut my throat after he slammed me into the wall."

"Well that's…What? Cut your throat?"

Scarecrow released Schiff's collar, exposing the man's neck. A thin line of dried blood ringed Thomas' throat. The Scarecrow traced a finger along this narrow cut, making Thomas shiver.

"The man who did this to you has the phone. Interesting. The pigs may have their hands tied for some time. Good. Give me the vial, Tommy," Scarecrow said. He held out his open palm.

Almost weak-kneed with relief, Thomas handed over the vial. Scarecrow accepted it and then looked for the identifying colored spot. He found the dot and silently praised Schiff for his luck. The dot was red, marking the vial's contents as fatal. If the schizophrenic hadn't babbled when he did, he probably would have spent the last hour before dawn meeting a wretched end.

"If the police do show up, I'll be giving this to you and then throwing your writhing body at them. You'd better hope your luck holds."

Only time would tell if Thomas' precarious luck would hold. Joe and Danielle, whether for good or for ill, didn't have any longer to wait. They were beginning what was sure to be a hair-raising trip down the two flights of stairs that separated them from the taxi. Danielle was confident in her footing; Joe wondered if it would be less painful to just sit on his ass and try to slide down the stairs.

"This is my punishment for always using the elevator," Joe muttered.

"My apartment building's elevator is fifty years old and scares the crap out of me…and I still ride it," Danielle said.

Perhaps paying for a life-time of laziness and easy rides, Joe and Danielle now had no choice but to take the stairs. Standing around and being intimidated by the gradient of the steps wasn't going to get them to the bottom floor. The only thing that would get them results was action.

"I think I should go first. If I ended up falling on you, you'd probably die and the sick irony of it would kill me, too," Joe said.

Thankful for the handrail, Joe took his first careful step. His legs didn't fly out from beneath him and he didn't go bouncing down the stairs like a graceless Slinky. He wasn't particularly inspired or heartened, either. One step hurt his knees and there were probably about fifty more to tackle before the night was done.

"One small step for man," Joe said. Danielle was kind enough to giggle.

"Just don't try any giant leaps for mankind. It'll definitely be the end of you," she said.

Spurred on by Danielle's good humor, Joe managed another eight steps before his foot slipped on the edge of a stair and his balance disappeared. He lurched forward, hand groping for the rail and meeting only air. The gun, which he had been too afraid to tuck into his waistband, fell from his now open hand and clattered to the bottom of the stairs. Joe was sure his body was going to follow suit in about two seconds.

Something clamped down on his bad hand and Joe could have screamed. He'd managed to push some of the pain away so he could at least function but having his hand squeezed allowed that caged pain to break free. He forgot all about falling on his face and was drawn into the reawakened stabbing agony in his hand.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry but I couldn't grab anything else!" Danielle said, her voice strained.

Joe barely had the energy to fight through the agony in his hand and re-orient himself. He discovered in his momentary fugue he'd fallen to his knees and was leaning forward at an angle that should have sprawled him out and rolled him down the stairs. Something mysterious and incredibly painful was defying gravity and holding him up.

"Joe, I don't want to sound rude, but you're way too heavy for me to keep this up. Please, grab the rail before we both fall."

The cabbie finally figured it out. Danielle, thinking and acting with speed Joe doubted he'd ever be capable of again, had grabbed him and kept him from wiping out. She was leaning back, struggling to keep the precarious balance intact. The significant size difference between Danielle and Joe made the task of holding him up a difficult one.

Joe grabbed the handrail and propped his own body up. He sat down on a stair and Danielle released his hand. He brought the tortured hand to his lap and rested it there. He had no desire to move it or any other part of his body.

"Did I hurt you? I didn't mean to, I just didn't have time to grab anything else," Danielle said.

"It hurt a long time before you touched it. Right now, though, I half wish the damned thing would just fall off. If this hand ever recovers, I'm going to find the Scarecrow and punch the living hell out of him with it," Joe said.

"Do you really want to see him again, even if it's just to kick his ass?"

After considering revenge versus terrible flashbacks, Joe shook his head. "No, you're right. I'll just have to imagine I'm punching him. Always assuming my hand heals completely, I'll have to start taking better care of it. No breaking faces."

Danielle sighed and bent down to pick up the card and gift she'd been forced to drop. Once Grandma Sophia's birthday presents had been recovered, Danielle sat down next to Joe. It was apparent he needed a little time to steady himself and standing around wasn't going to make him recharge any quicker.

"We're about a quarter of the way down. Even if we take our time—and I mean _really_ take our time—it shouldn't be more than twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes is too long. Way too long. I don't trust that nutcase not to try to knock us down the stairs. I'm ready to do this," Joe said.

Before Danielle could suggest he take his time, Joe had hauled himself up using the rail for support. He was much more careful when he placed his foot on the next step and disaster didn't strike a second time. Danielle had to hope Joe wasn't pressing his luck or being over-demanding to his body. If he took another tumble, she doubted if she'd be quick enough to save him a second time.

As Joe and Danielle continued their descent, Detective Stephens looked to do a little saving of his own. Unfortunately, he couldn't just grab his partner's hand and then have a brief rest. What he needed to do would probably, if not certainly, kill him.

"A trade, detective? What are we trading for?" Zsasz asked.

"Benson for me. How's that sound?" Stephens replied.

"Jerry, goddamn it, no! Have you lost your mind? You can't do that, he'll cut you open and—" Benson's protests were cut off as the knife was pressed against his throat hard enough to draw more blood.

"That sounds like a fair swap, detective. Just throw away your gun; I don't trust you not to shoot me should you get a chance. That scowl on your face doesn't inspire confidence," Zsasz said.

Stephens extracted his gun from its holster and held it up. He then lobbed it into the alley, where it was swallowed by darkness and lost among the trash.

Benson heard the gun fall among old newspapers and empty cans and moaned in despair. This was so obscenely wrong it made him sick to his stomach. What was going on in Jerry's head? How could he even think to sacrifice his life—Benson had no doubt his partner was willingly going to his death—for no reason?

"Good, detective, now put your hands up where I can see them. You probably have a Taser or pepper-spray, and it would be unfortunate for you and your partner if you decided to go for either of them."

Detective Stephens raised his hands, realizing the irony of the situation. The criminal forcing the policeman to put his hands in the air.

"You're even better than Benson at following directions. You're quieter, too. I know I'm going to enjoy talking to you. Turn around and walk towards me, detective. I'll tell you when to stop."

Despite every instinct he had screaming that he did not want to turn his back on a psychotic killer, Stephens turned and began to slowly walk towards Zsasz. The detective's heart began to race and he felt oddly cold, as though he was walking through a freezer instead of an alley. Perhaps his body was having a premonition of what it would be like lying chilled and lifeless in the morgue.

"Alright, that's far enough. You can lower your hands and we'll make the exchange."

Stephens stopped and waited, anxious to see what would happen. Suddenly, Benson was shoved forward, past his partner, and stumbled to his hands and knees. Before the cop could regain his feet, Stephens had been snagged. The trade was complete and the only one particularly pleased with the results was Zsasz.

"Very noble, detective. You understand me, what I do, don't you? That's why you handed yourself over, isn't it? You want this."

"You're out of your mind. I did it because Benson's my responsibility and my friend. The only reason you do what you do is because your elevator gets stuck at the first floor," Stephens replied.

"That's a clever way of putting it. Incorrect, but clever. I am not crazy."

"If you aren't crazy, I don't want to see what crazy looks like."

The killer's brief pretense at friendly conversation ended when he laid his blade against his captive's bare neck. Stephens winced as the pressure increased and the knife pierced his skin. He wasn't sure if Zsasz was warning him to watch his mouth or if he was going to kill the detective. It was only when the blade stopped advancing towards his jugular that Stephens knew he had been issued a mere warning.

"I know you're a stubborn man, a hard case even, but if you insult me, I will hurt you. We are going to talk until I am satisfied, and I am not afraid to cut you to make you behave," Zsasz said.

"You do what you've gotta do. I know your type. I've seen if before and I'm not afraid of it," Stephens replied.

Detective Stephens might not have been afraid of it, but Benson was horrified by it. He was not going to stand there and watch his partner suffer, bleed, and eventually die. He was going to do something about it. Praying it wouldn't get Stephens slashed open, Benson fished his radio off his belt and made the situation known to the other policeman.

Zsasz heard the radio chatter, the other officers' replies and curses, and smiled. He was going to have an audience. That would make escape much harder—perhaps impossible, but he didn't particularly mind Arkham—but it would also make it much more interesting. Murder was always more fun when others got to watch.

* * *

This chapter's challenge: what, scientifically, is so special about Alpha Centauri?


	32. Want to Know How I Got These Scars?

Thanks for the reviews!

From the last challenge, Alpha Centauri is special because it's the closest star to the Earth not counting the Sun.

* * *

Joe and Danielle had reached a milestone: the second floor landing. The door to the second floor was still padlocked, and Danielle had to wonder exactly what the Scarecrow was keeping there that was so dangerous or horrible it needed to be locked up. After all, the third floor—where he did his human experiments and tortured his victims—was open for easy access. Whatever was behind that door had to be indescribably awful.

Though she had no way of knowing it, Danielle was wrong regarding the malevolence of the second floor. The door was locked simply to keep Schiff from wandering around in places he'd be better off not going. When Crane had first found the schizophrenic roaming the streets like a lost dog, he'd been in far worse shape mentally. In order to prevent Schiff from accidentally locking himself in a closet, Crane had padlocked the second floor. The doctor had rarely used the rooms on the second floor anyway (they didn't fit his specifications for testing facilities and some were painted an obnoxious shade of sunshine yellow) so closing off the floor was no great loss.

While Danielle pondered the dark mysteries of the off-limits second floor, Joe sunk to the floor and stretched his weary legs out in front of him. Never in his life had he ever felt so utterly drained and exhausted. Every joint and muscle ached, his head still felt like it had been thrown into a rock tumbler and jostled around, and he didn't even want to think about his maimed hand. Ever since Danielle had grabbed it, the damned thing kept sending off flares of pain throughout his arm. The cuts hurt just as badly as they did when they had been first inflicted, and it was starting to drive the cabbie mad.

Turning from the door, Danielle took a quick look at Joe. He looked like death that nobody had even bothered to warm over. The dried blood and cuts that marred his face, hand, and arms were all bad enough but the expression on his face was somehow worse. He didn't appear happy or excited or eager to get down the remaining steps. Instead, he looked like a man waiting to hear whether his cancer was malignant or benign.

"Are you alright, Joe?" Danielle asked, knowing it was a stupid and hollow question. He obviously wasn't alright and wouldn't be until he had received medical treatment, sleep, and lots and lots of hugs. Danielle just hoped asking would get him to talk to her and maybe distract him from some of the pain that was so apparent on his face.

The cabbie looked up and nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Three words were not going to help Joe's morale or divert his mind from the obviously monstrous pain in his hand. Danielle decided to try again, and use a more open-ended question, one that would require a little more effort and articulation to answer.

"When I was poisoned, what did you do? How did you manage to get the upper hand?"

"Honestly, I have no idea. He should have killed me. He beat me—I'm ashamed to admit it, but he did—and by rights I should be dead. We both should be. He kept taunting me, telling me how'd he keep you around for a while and then kill you. The crazy bastard had the nerve to ask me where I wanted our bodies dumped! The river or Robinson Park," Joe said.

Danielle was taken aback by the news. As she'd been living her own bloody nightmares courtesy of the Scarecrow's fear toxin, Joe hadn't exactly been on vacation. She knew just by looking at him that he'd been physically worn down, but to hear how the Scarecrow had verbally tormented him made her both furious and heart-broken. She wanted to march straight up to the Scarecrow and punch him in the nose. Then she wanted to hug Joe like a giant, foul-mouthed plushy and thank him for not dying on her.

"You know, maybe I do have some kind of idea as to what saved me. It was you." Joe saw Danielle's jaw drop.

"Me? How could it have been me? I couldn't have been of any use. I was huddled in a ball, hallucinating and probably screaming my head off," Danielle protested.

"I guess you don't remember it, but you called my name. Called it twice, actually, and just in the nick of time. The Scarecrow was ready to kill me, and I was ready to let him. I was done, I didn't think I could take any more, and then you called me. It reminded me that I wasn't done, no matter how much easier sitting there and taking the needle would have been. You got me motivated and I managed the impossible. So there you go. You pretty much saved both of us because I was a quitter," Joe said.

A moment later, Joe had Danielle clinging to him, crying and telling him he wasn't a quitter, he was wonderful and he deserved a medal. He patted her on the back with one clumsy arm, since comforting her with an actual hug was impossible thanks to his injured hand. At the gentle contact, she sobbed harder and wrapped her arms around his chest.

"What did I say? There's nothing to cry over," Joe said.

"Yes there is. We both could have died and you're kicking yourself in the ass for no reason. If I'd been in your position, I couldn't have handled it. You saw how I am with blood and that blood wasn't even mine. But you, you let him have it!" Danielle said.

Joe chuckled. "That was motivational. Is that what you do in Seattle? You get up on stage and teach people how to be happy and successful?"

Danielle released Joe from the clutches of her super-hug and wiped at her eyes. "No, I do what everyone else in Seattle does."

"Coffee," Joe said.

"Coffee, Danielle confirmed.

"I could use some coffee. No, scratch that. I could use a barrel of coffee, with NoDoz instead of creamer. That would probably kill me, though, wouldn't it?"

"Probably."

"I suppose I'll have to suck it up and go without my coffee or my caffeine pills. They would have made it easier to get back up, but I don't want my heart exploding." Joe struggled to his feet, his tired joints moaning as they were forced back into action.

With Joe standing and Danielle dry-eyed, they prepared to continue the great descent. There was only one thing to take care of before they left the landing: the gun. It had tumbled down there when Joe had dropped it, and now it was Danielle who picked it up.

"I'll hold onto this, if you don't mind," Danielle said.

"You sure? You've got your granny's birthday present and card," Joe said.

"I can manage easy. My hands, well, nobody butchered them. If you fall again—God help us if you do—you'll need that hand free."

Joe saw her point and didn't protest. He doubted they'd need the gun ever again, and he was a lousy shot with it, anyway.

Their weapon secured, Joe and Danielle prepared to conquer the last half of the staircase. As before, the cabbie went first so an accidental fall couldn't result in anyone being squashed. Danielle followed close behind, tense and ready to take action if Joe lost the battle with gravity. He was steady on the first few steps, but Danielle knew better than to let down her guard. She had to be alert, to use constant vigilance, since Joe was too exhausted to be the watchman any more.

Wound to the point of popping his cogs, Detective Benson looked on helplessly as his partner fidgeted in the serial killer's grasp. The young detective was lost, idealess, and desperate. He'd never tried hostage-negotiation before and attempting it with Zsasz was a baptism by fire that would almost certainly leave him and Stephens burned. Benson considered himself at best a fair marksman, and that was nowhere near good enough to risk taking a shot at what little Zsasz exposed. The detective's only hope was to wait for backup and pray someone could come up with a decent plan.

"There's no need to wait for your friends, is there? I think as long as they're here for the last act, that should leave enough of an impression. Are you are satisfied with that, detective?" Zsasz asked.

"If I die, you'll die, too. If you think you can kill me in front of five good cops and get away with it, you're crazier than I thought. They will bring your ass down," Stephens replied.

"Brave words, detective, but didn't I warn you about insinuating I was crazy? It gets tiresome and as much as I like you, I won't put up with you ignoring my warnings. Perhaps you don't think I'm serious. That's a grave mistake to make, detective."

It was difficult not to take a man who was holding a carving knife up to your throat seriously. Stephens knew insane when he saw it—after witnessing the chaos and madness of the Joker, picking out the truly sick individuals was a cake walk—and Zsasz was nuttier than a jar of Planters. There wasn't a sliver of doubt in Stephens' mind regarding the killer's convictions or mental health; the detective simply ignored the danger and refused to be cowed. His death was probably going to occur in the next few minutes, and he had no intentions of going quietly or without resistance.

"Don't like listening to the truth, huh? Why? Does it bother you, get under your skin, when people tell you—"

Zsasz brought the knife up from Stephens' throat and held the keen blade in front of the detective's eyes. There was no doubt about it: that was one intimidating, mean-looking weapon. It had felt as sharp as a freshly stropped razor and, despite the less-than-ideal conditions it was subject to on the mean streets of the Narrows, shone with an almost eldritch light. Stephens knew the bizarre light was nothing more than the polished blade reflecting the light from Benson's unsteady flashlight. Still, there was something otherworldly about how the light danced and jumped about the knife's surface.

"Let me show you what gets under my skin, detective," Zsasz said.

Before Stephens could ask what the killer meant, Zsasz brought his left arm up and cleanly sliced through the sleeve of his shirt, from the elbow all the way to the cuff. The ruined fabric fell back, revealing the skin underneath. Benson shined his flashlight on the newly exposed arm and Stephens was able to get a good look at what the psycho wanted to show him.

Scars, lots of them. Obviously intentionally inflicted and grouped like tally marks. How goddamn weird.

"Do I even want to know?" Stephens asked, suspecting he didn't.

"I think you do, detective."

Stephens had seen thugs and criminals display some odd and truly horrific scars—gunshot wounds, missing fingers, disfigured faces, slashed torsos—but he'd never seen anything remotely similar to what Zsasz was sporting. The groups of scars were scattered along the length of his arm, and Stephens was willing to bet there were more of the strange markings hidden under the killer's shirt. Why Zsasz had so mutilated himself, the detective couldn't understand. Maybe it was an offshoot of whatever psychosis instigated him to murder.

"Do you want to know what each of those marks represent?" Zsasz asked, his voice eager.

"Sex-partners?" Stephens said.

"Oh, detective, another smart remark like that and I may just cut your ears off."

"I don't know why you felt the need to cut yourself like that."

"Each one of my scars is a memorial, a way for me to remember all the people I've helped."

"Helped? I don't…Jesus, you can't mean that. Not that many, it's not possible." Stephens suddenly felt sick as realization dawned on him.

Some gang members symbolized the number of murders they'd committed by getting teardrop-shaped tattoos. Zsasz had apparently done something similar, choosing self-etched tally marks in place of tattoos. The sheer number of scars, however, was far beyond any gang-banger's inked teardrops that Stephens had ever seen. On the killer's arm alone, Stephens estimated at least thirty marks. If the scars continued to other areas of Zsasz's body…

"Jerry, what the hell is he talking about? Those marks on his arm, they don't represent _victims_, do they?" Benson asked. The flashlight he'd been focusing on Stephens and Zsasz began to quiver as the detective's arm shook.

"Keep it together, Benson. It's disgusting, but you can't afford to lose your head. I need you to take him out if he does me first. You understand? Lethal force. I won't end up as his trophy. Don't you dare let that happen to me," Stephens said.

Zsasz took careful note of Benson's pallor and his shaking. The detective was so horrified by what he was seeing that he wasn't even bothering to put on a tough-cop façade. Or maybe he was incapable of hiding his true feelings. That amused the killer. Seeing a policeman—a public protector renowned for bravery—exhibit open fear was a rarity. Zsasz found it satisfying that he'd managed to punch through Benson's shell and expose his rawest emotions.

"There's no reason to look so frightened, detective. All of these zombies were given the freedom they desired deep down. You could have joined them, if your friend hadn't volunteered. You still can, if you want," Zsasz said.

Benson felt the urge to hurl and swallowed it down. He was not going to shame himself by puking. He had to keep it together, if not for himself, then for his partner. Jerry was in a far worse predicament but taking it a lot better. If Stephens could keep from suffering a breakdown, Benson figured he could, too.

Turning his focus back to Detective Stephens, Zsasz lowered his arm and placed the knife back where it belonged. The cop hardly flinched. Zsasz had to admit he admired the detective's stoicism.

"While we're waiting for your friends, why don't we have our little chat, detective? I've been waiting all night, and I'd like to find out a little about you."

"I don't want to talk to you. You're scum," Stephens replied.

The knife leapt from Stephens' throat to his ear. Now the detective did flinch.

"We are going to talk, or you are going to lose this," Zsasz said. The pressure on the knife increased and Stephens winced as blood began to trickle down the side of his head.

Stephens decided to retain his ear. As much as he didn't want to carry on a conversation with the maniac, having body parts lopped off was too high a price to pay.

"What do you want to talk about? Baseball, politics, the stock market?" Stephens asked.

"I think we're past the point of anything so mundane. Let's discuss why cops are never happy."

"You should know."

"Know what, detective? Is it _my_ fault all policemen look like their mother just died?"

"In my case it is."

This conversation was not going to end favorably for him, Stephens knew it already. He'd managed to back himself into a corner and he'd only said two sentences. He felt more blood flow down his cheek, felt the knife bite deeper into the groove it had created in his earlobe. He closed his eyes and waited for the monstrous stab of pain that would signal he was down an ear.

Instead of cutting off Stephens' ear, Zsasz decided to give the detective one last chance. He liked the detective's rough attitude, even if it got a little insulting. It was such a change from the reactions Zsasz was used to seeing in his victims: wide-eyed fear, begging, running, crying, praying. Detective Stephens faced his fate bravely, and that was something to be admired.

"Don't let your tongue slip again, detective. My hand will do the same."

"Thanks for the warning," Stephens said, knowing it would only be a matter of time before his mouth got him in trouble. He couldn't help it. Sometimes the truth, especially the ugly, potentially lethal truth, had a way of sneaking out.

Joe would have sympathized.

* * *

Challenge (or random question) for the chapter: would you rather talk baseball, politics, or the stock market?


	33. Just Before the Dawn

Thanks for the reviews. Your responses were intriguing. A lot of politics, one baseball, one stock market, and one football... way to think outside the box, I guess.

WTFWonder: I named the chapter on purpose, pretty much to get reactions like yours and to raise false Joker hopes.

* * *

Scarecrow knew good and well that he'd have to move his base of operations in the coming day, or even hours, if he wanted to avoid being shipped back to Arkham. The two escaped test subjects, even if they couldn't give authorities an exact street address, would be capable of pinning down a block. Really, Scarecrow figured, he ought to expect a knock on his door anytime from Gotham's Finest. They were slackers, flunkies, and idiots, the whole brood of them, but even the most miserable moron had to do one thing correctly sometime in his life.

Leaving now would be most prudent, but Scarecrow found he didn't have the energy. He'd retired to his chair, and saw no reason to get up and move. Schiff, restless as always, was pacing around the room, wringing his hands while he walked, but Scarecrow ignored him. The schizophrenic never ran out of nervous energy and Scarecrow didn't feel like expending the energy to shout or threaten him.

"I'm going to sleep," Scarecrow said.

Schiff stopped pacing and looked at him. "Huh?"

"I'm going to sleep, right here in this chair. When I wake up, if the police aren't breaking down the door, we're going to find a new hideout. This one has been compromised."

"Oh, okay. Good night."

Leaning back in his chair, listening to his joints pop and crack, Scarecrow didn't feel much better than Joe. His back promised to cause him more trouble, pain, and spasms in the near future, his head hurt, and his shot foot peeped out its own painful message every now and then. Scarecrow knew, upon waking, he'd be as stiff as a board and indescribably sore, but sleep was all he wanted. He didn't even have the strength or the motivation to search out some painkillers before he dozed off.

Not even three minutes after sitting down, Scarecrow drifted off. Schiff looked at the sleeping body and realized just how tired he was. He'd probably walked for miles, he'd run until he'd collapsed, and near-death experiences did tend to wear a man out. Surely Scarecrow wouldn't mind if Schiff dragged his poor, beaten hide to his room and got some rest. And even if he did mind, he was too deeply asleep to tell Thomas of his position.

Schiff stepped for the door and had nearly made it when he heard a low, quiet groan behind him. He didn't want to turn around—the door was beckoning him—but fear of the Scarecrow overrode his desire for sleep. The Scarecrow had come within centimeters of taking his life twice tonight, and Thomas wanted to do everything in his power to avoid a third murder attempt.

The Scarecrow, even though he'd just conked out, had passed into REM sleep. His eyelids fluttered and his eyes roved beneath them. He muttered on occasion, and Schiff was overcome by curiosity. He had a burning urge to find out what Scarecrow was muttering about—and by proxy what he was dreaming about.

There was one secret that Thomas kept hidden from Dr. Crane. The schizophrenic knew Crane was prone to talk—and sometimes do much, much more than that—in his sleep. If Crane had known his pet was aware of his occasional night-terrors, said pet would have been dealt with swiftly and without mercy. The doctor would never allow news of his nightmares to get out, and with Schiff's lack of sensibility and tact, it was possible.

With the foreknowledge of Crane's sleep behaviors, Schiff wanted to know if Scarecrow suffered from the same problems. He was well aware of how dangerous the knowledge would be, but curiosity exhibited an even greater control over the schizophrenic than it did over the proverbial dead cat.

Schiff inched closer and the Scarecrow continued to mutter and dream. The words were too muffled and quiet to understand so Thomas crept closer still. He began to hear more clearly, though not perfectly, so he dared to come even closer.

By the time Schiff was close enough to understand what Scarecrow was mumbling about, he was practically leaning over the sleeper. He came to regret that closeness when the Scarecrow's eyes suddenly opened. Schiff would have screamed if his throat hadn't sealed itself shut out of stark horror.

The eyes that locked onto the panicking schizophrenic were not the hard, cruel eyes of the Scarecrow. They were the blatantly confused eyes of Jonathan Crane. The doctor's expression was one of mingled perplexity and pain.

"Thomas? When did you get back? Where's that repugnant cabbie? What happened to my head?" Crane reached a probing hand up to his forehead, poked it gently, and winced.

"It's really you, Dr. Crane? It's not Scarecrow?" Schiff asked.

"Yes, it's me. I don't know _what_ Scarecrow's been doing. Tell me what you're doing back. Tell me why I don't remember anything."

"I don't know why you don't remember, Dr. Crane. You sent me away to get rid of the phone and I did. I gave it to a hobo, and then the hobo tried to cut me. I don't know what happened here. I just got back and Joe had a gun and he made Scarecrow let him and the phone girl leave."

Crane's brain, scrambled like an egg from the head injury and the period of unconsciousness, took a while to process what Schiff had just said. The phone was gone—a good thing—but what had been that bit about a hobo cutting him? And a gun? Where had the goddamn cabbie gotten a gun from?

"Once more, Schiff. Tell me about the hobo," Crane said.

"He was sleeping on the ground, but he wasn't really asleep. I gave him the phone, just to be nice, and he slammed me into the wall! And then he tried to kill me with a sharp, sharp knife. And he would have, except the phone rang and I ran away while he answered it."

A quick, violent attack the victim never saw coming. Subduing the victim, and then taking the knife across the throat. Crane knew the attack pattern and he wasn't pleased. Victor needed…a stern talking to. But that would have to wait.

"You came back and then what? Where did the cabbie get the gun from? Unless it was mine. It was, wasn't it? No, don't bother looking, I know already. Scarecrow was sloppy—too eager to have his fun—and he ruined it. The idiot, the fool, the incompetent, demented bag of burlap and straw!" Crane felt the great urge to punch something. That was a rarity, for his anger almost never got to the point where he desired a physical outpouring.

"When did they leave? Tell me it was very recently," Crane said.

Schiff nodded, and not just out of a desire to be agreeable. Joe and the phone girl—Schiff had trouble with her real name—had made their break for it not fifteen minutes ago. Schiff relayed this information and Crane relaxed a little.

"They wouldn't have found help, not that quickly. We have time on our side."

"That's good, but what are we going to do? When Scarecrow went to bed, he said when he woke up, we were going to need a new hideout. Is that the plan?" Schiff asked.

"That is the plan, and Scarecrow's going to hear my displeasure soon enough. What's the matter with him? Sleeping when time is of the essence…"

"Where are we going?"

"I know a few places."

"Are we going right now?"

"In a few minutes. First, I'm getting something for my head before my brain spurts out my ears. Gather up anything small that you're fond of. Not the television."

Thomas nodded and hurried off to his room. He had precious few treasures and it wouldn't take him long. By the time he was done, Crane would be ready. Then the two of them would seek greener, more covert pastures.

While Crane planned his escape, Danielle and Joe completed theirs. They reached the final step and were greeted with the dying exit sign and the marvelous, beautiful door to freedom. Joe walked over to the door, extended his arm, and froze with his hand inches from the handle.

"Ready?" Joe asked.

"If you don't open that door in the next three seconds, I'm pushing you out of the way and doing it myself," Danielle replied.

Grinning, Joe grasped the handle. A dark thought invaded his head: what if the door wouldn't open? Then they'd go find a window and climb out. They hadn't come this far to be stopped, and door or no door, they were leaving.

Joe pushed on the door and it offered little resistance. The hinges were a bit rusty and squeaky, but they swung easily enough. The door opened into the blackness of the alley and Danielle cheered in triumph, hugging Joe again.

The cabbie stepped out of the dim stairwell and into the darkness. Only it wasn't as dark as when the Scarecrow had first ushered his guests through the passage. Joe could make out the hand in front of his face, the far wall and vague shadows on the asphalt that had to be litter. He looked up into the sky and understood: dawn was breaking in the east and the sky, instead of being the inky blackness of a moonless night was the sooty gray of early morning.

Danielle joined him in the alley and then joined him in looking at the sky. She had never been so happy to see sunrise, not even during the summer of her twelfth year when she'd read _'Salem's Lot_ and had spent a seemingly endless night listening for a vampire to knock on her bedroom window and request entry. The sun was a marvelous, beautiful, wonderful thing. In daylight, you were safe.

"I can see why so many people used to worship the sun. It rules," Danielle said.

"I'm going to re-start a sun cult," Joe said.

"I'll join."

Proper sunrise was still a ways off and the best place to see it was not a dingy, foul alley in the heart of the Narrows. The Scarecrow's former test subjects stopped sky-watching and started navigating towards Joe's cab. He missed his cab terribly and could not wait to be safely enclosed within it.

With feeble light to help them, Joe and Danielle found the cab without much difficulty. It was still parked by the dumpster, which was as vermin-infested as ever. A rat meandered around the base of the dumpster, sniffing with its whiskered snout. A million of its closest relatives were probably in the vicinity.

"Get outta here! If you plague-carrying fur balls munched anything in my car, I'll stomp the hell out of you," Joe said. The rat didn't so much as look at him.

Joe headed for the driver's seat and then changed his mind. He was in no shape to be driving, not with all the injuries he'd received. There was no way he'd be quick enough to brake in an emergency or swerve around an obstruction, such as one of the crazy hobos that populated the area.

"Danielle, you want to drive?"

"You'd let me drive your baby? Are you sure, Joe?"

"Yeah. I'm too beaten up to drive, anyway. I guess if I trust you with my life, you're entitled to my car, too."

Danielle accepted the keys and then took Joe's usual spot in the driver's seat. He hobbled over to the passenger's side and got in. This marked a special occasion for him: he'd never, not once in his life, actually been a passenger in a taxi. Always a driver, never a rider, and now his streak was going to break.

After securing the gun along with Grandma Sophia's birthday paraphernalia, adjusting the seat and the mirror and buckling her seatbelt, Danielle inserted the key into the ignition. Now was the moment of truth. If a rat had eaten the sparkplugs, they were up the creek without a paddle, canoe, or life-jacket. If not, they were home free.

The engine rumbled to life without a hiccup. Danielle collapsed onto the steering wheel, weak with relief. Joe patted the car's dashboard enthusiastically, as one would whack a friend on the back after winning a championship game.

"I love you, baby, Joe loves you."

"Danielle loves you, too."

Danielle shifted the car into gear and they were rolling. Where, exactly, they were rolling to hadn't been determined yet. As long as it was away from the Scarecrow, nobody was complaining.

As bright as the future looked for Joe and Danielle, it looked proportionately grim for Detective Stephens. The cop was bleeding, he was in no mood to talk, and Zsasz wouldn't stop prodding him with personal and intrusive questions he had no desire to answer.

"Why did you decide to become a policeman? Were you pressured into it? Did you want the power that comes with a gun and a badge? Or were you one of those poor, deluded souls that believe they can accomplish some good?"

Stephens wished Zsasz's lower jaw would fall off. The detective could not stand the sound of the killer's prying, curious voice any longer. It wormed its way into his ears and nested there, like earwigs were alleged to do. Shutting out Benson was easy; shutting out Zsasz was like trying to shut out a death metal band screaming and whaling on the drums in the confines of your bedroom.

"Which one is it, detective? A, B, C, or none of the above?" Zsasz asked.

"I did it for the satisfaction," Stephens replied.

"No fluff answers. This isn't middle school, where you can get away with saying the book you read was "well-written"; I demand substance. What kind of satisfaction?"

"The satisfaction of knowing I was taking people like you off the streets. The satisfaction of knowing I tried. The satisfaction of knowing I didn't sit back and let Gotham rot without doing something. That clear enough for you?"

Zsasz nodded. "So it was C, then. A delusional do-gooder. How did that work out for you, detective? Did you stop the bad guys?"

"Ask me in about half an hour, then I'll tell you how I kicked the bad guy's ass."

"Asking you anything in half an hour would be a futile gesture, detective."

"Why's that?" Stephens asked.

"You'll be dead."

"Go to hell."

Detective Stephens had reached his limit. He could not stand one more second of having Zsasz breathe demented shit into his ear. If there was no other way out, he was going to provoke the killer and get his throat slashed. Even that couldn't be as bad as being held in a one-armed hug and interviewed by a lunatic.

Just as Stephens prepared to stomp on Zsasz's foot, the first wave of the cavalry arrived. The sound of heavy, strained breathing announced that Harvey Bullock had gotten his considerable size in motion and had exerted himself running to the scene. The man himself appeared in the mouth of the alley a few seconds after his huffing breaths gave him away. His significantly trimmer female partner was at his side. They both looked furious.

"Jesus, Stephens, how'd you get yourself in this mess?" Bullock asked.

Zsasz couldn't help himself; the curiosity was just too much. He risked exposing his head so he could get a good look at his new friends. He needed to know what they looked like so he could judge who would be the most dangerous or the most likely to seize up with fear and offer an easy target.

The detective who was breathing so loudly had been taking advantage of the free donuts cops stereotypically loved. He was broad in the shoulders (and everywhere else, for that matter), he had forgotten to shave for about a week, and his clothes had the ruffled appearance of an unmade bed. He had also gone for his sidearm and had it aimed in Zsasz's general direction. This detective meant business.

The bullish detective's partner instantly attracted Zsasz. She was lean, athletic, obviously of Hispanic descent. She was also serious about saving Detective Stephens: she had her gun aimed directly at Zsasz's face and was wearing a scowl that told him she would blow his head off if given half a chance.

"I'm happy you got here, detectives. I've been talking with my friend, but Detective Stephens isn't much of a conversationalist. He's been getting impatient," Zsasz said.

"Let him go!" the female detective ordered.

"Not until he's free."

Not understanding what he was asking for, Bullock said, "Well hurry the hell up and free him."

"That sounds like permission. Don't worry, detective, it won't hurt for long."

Stephens couldn't say he was surprised. When your job routinely called for you to be held at knife-point by homicidal maniacs, it was only a matter of time before one of those lunatics got you. It was just the way the world worked. If you pushed your luck enough times, eventually the universe was going to push back.

The blade left his throat and Stephens surmised it would be back momentarily to do its job. Considering he was down to a second of life before he was cut open like a cow at the slaughterhouse, he supposed he was handling himself well enough. No tears, no shivering, no screaming, no pleading. And it was some condolence to know Zsasz would be joining him in death not long after. Montoya was a hell of a shot, and she was pissed. A deadly combination.

There was pain—horrible, unbearable pain—but not where Stephens had expected it. Zsasz had left the detective's neck alone and had sunk the blade deep into Stephens' side. At the last minute, the killer had gotten a bright idea for an escape plan, and his promise that the agony would be brief had to be broken. It really was a shame, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made.

His audience members were all police officers (calling them police_men_ would be sexist and Zsasz would not be accused of sexism) and they understood sacrifice. Surely they wouldn't hold it against him. And if they did? He still had Stephens' breathing body to serve as a shield.

* * *

Random question for this chapter: would you rather join Joe's sun cult, or the Cult of Cthulhu?


	34. In Search of an Exit

Did I ever tell you lovely reviewers how much I love you? Because if I didn't, I deserve to be smacked. You guys are the greatest, most fantastic bunch of reviewers a girl could ask for.

The results for last chapter's random question: Cthulhu, alas, gains only two new cultists. Joe's sun cult gets five.

* * *

Zsasz understood how essential escape was if he didn't want to find himself shot full of holes, but he was in such a pleasant position that moving and ruining it—even to save his life—almost didn't seem worth the cost. Detective Stephens was warm and quivering against his body, the detective's friends were openly horrorstruck, and there was the soft patter of blood dripping onto the asphalt. The situation was so raw and pristine that changing it felt like destroying a masterpiece.

"We're going to move now, detective," Zsasz whispered in Stephens' ear.

The detective's response was to make the same soft, breathless _uh_ he'd been making since the knife had slipped so easily into his body. The insidious, consuming pain had paralyzed him and rendered him all but mute. He wanted to scream but couldn't gather enough air to make any meaningful sound. He wanted to collapse and lay still and bleed out, but his knees retained enough strength to remain locked.

Stephens found his paralysis broken by an outside force when Zsasz started backpedaling, pulling his hostage with him. The detective's legs were forced to move, to keep pace with the killer's hasty retreat. He was being dragged away from his fellow officers, deeper into the shadows of the alley and there was not one damned thing he could do about it.

"Don't follow us. If you do, I'll gut him," Zsasz warned.

Telling the police not to follow was like setting down a steak in front of a starving dog and telling it not to eat. Instinct overruled orders and the three detectives pursued, keeping their weapons trained on the killer. Zsasz hadn't expected the detectives to let him go so easily, but he'd wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt.

"I warned you. Maybe you didn't think I was serious, but I am. Here's your reward, officers."

Montoya, Bullock and Benson froze, miming Zsasz, who had come to a halt first. Detective Stephens, the entire side of his shirt soaked with blood, was forced to look into the faces of his comrades. Even through the overwhelming haze of his pain, Stephens could make out the mix of helplessness, fear, and rage on the detectives' faces. Montoya looked angry enough to rip off Zsasz's arm and bludgeon him to death with it—this heartened Stephens, knowing she wouldn't let his killer escape—Benson looked about as wretched as a person could, and Bullock was trying his best to match his partner's hatred and not quite achieving it.

The knife buried in his side shifted and Stephens gasped. The new burst of pain had managed to free his caged voice a little, and that was what Zsasz had been hoping for. The killer needed his victim to be vocal if what he was going to do was to have the optimum effect. Watching the detective writhe would send an effective message to his disobedient friends, but hearing him scream would send a much stronger one.

"You brought this on him," Zsasz said, and slid his blade free.

Stephens' vision grayed and his head spun. The strength ran out of his legs like blood from a wound and Stephens slumped forward, his body as rigid as boiled spaghetti. If not for Zsasz's restraining arm across his chest, the detective would have sprawled onto the ground.

"No fainting, detective. I need you conscious just a little longer."

The bloody tip of the knife being pressed against his cheek forced Stephens' mind to emerge from the fog. It wasn't so much the pain of the blade digging into him—it was hardly noticeable over the bleating agony of the original puncture—as the memories the knife triggered that cleared Stephens' head. As the knife was positioned, if Zsasz sliced it downward, it would split Stephens' cheek into a macabre smile. He'd grin like the Joker and he rebelled against the thought of resembling that murderous freak in the last minutes of his life.

To the killer's surprise, his prey came back to life and began to struggle. The resistance was weak, hindered by blood loss and debilitating pain, but determined nonetheless. Zsasz had to admire that level of resilience. Some of his victims had frozen and gone dead-eyed at the mere sight of him and his weapon of choice; the detective was built of sterner stuff.

"Not the face, detective? A little lower, then."

It was perverse, but once it was clear he wasn't going to be carved up like the Joker, Stephens relaxed. Yes, he was still going to die, but he wouldn't be disfigured. He'd be presentable at his own funeral, as least.

The relief was transitory; the cruel knife that had been poised at his face slid down, tracing along his neck and chest. It skated along his ribs, and Stephens wondered if he wouldn't feel it slip between the bones and into his lungs. Or his heart. He'd seen more than his fair share of homicides, and was under the impression a stab wound to the heart was almost instantly fatal and over so quickly it practically had to be painless. There was a chance he'd find out firsthand.

Then the knife was past his most vital organs, and still descending. Detective Stephens figured out what Zsasz was going to do about a second before the killer guided his blade back into Stephens' side. The angle of entry was lower and the knife carved an entirely new path into the viscera.

Stephens' vision faded to a pinprick. Somewhere across a vast distance he could hear someone—probably a male someone—screaming. Whoever that someone was, he sounded like he was dying. Stephens felt great pity for that distant someone. For a reason he couldn't comprehend, the screamer sounded familiar, yet the detective couldn't recall ever hearing a friend or family member yowl like that.

"Jerry! Goddamn it, Jerry!" Benson screamed, watching his partner go limp in Zsasz's grip.

"Oh, shit," Bullock muttered. This was like nothing he'd ever seen before, never thought he'd see, and had no desire to ever see again.

Montoya had no words to express her disgust and her rage. She was watching an officer she knew personally die in front of her eyes and she was incapable of saving him.

"This time, detectives, listen to me. Stay where you are. If anyone pursues, you'll have this man's blood on your hands. Among other places."

Barely conscious, Stephens was vaguely aware that his body was moving. He wondered who was moving him—he surely wasn't moving himself, not if he found it difficult to control just his eyelids—and where he was going.

Benson watched as his partner was dragged deeper and deeper into the alley. The young detective had not signed up for this. Nowhere in his training had he been told what to do when a psychopath stabs your friend in the guts; there had been no pamphlet or seminar on standing by, useless and responsible, as your partner bleeds out with only his murderer for company. Nobody had told him things like this could happen and he was pretty pissed off about it.

"We'll get him back. Stephens is too heavy to drag for long. Zsasz has to drop him if he wants to run for it."

Benson was pulled from his despairing thoughts by Montoya's voice. He wasn't sure is she was assuring him, or assuring herself. Either way, she sounded sure enough to convince him Stephens had at least a meager chance of living to fight crime another day.

"You got a plan, Montoya?" Bullock asked.

"Yeah, but keep your voices low. He hears and we don't stand a chance. The alley opens back onto the street down there, and as soon as he turns the corner, I'm going after him."

"Why you? Jerry's my partner and—"

"You're under distress and that's not going to help your aim. Bullock moves like a hippopotamus. A deaf man could hear him coming. What I need you two to do is cover any noise I might make," Montoya said.

"How?"

"Call for backup and an ambulance. Be loud, be desperate, be angry. Just don't let him hear me coming."

Zsasz, still lugging Stephens like an oversized piece of luggage, reached the end of the alley. He gave the three detectives a quick glance—they'd stayed where he'd told them to stay—and then turned right at the alleyway's mouth. He intended to string the detective along just a little further, and then set him down on a clear patch of sidewalk. By the time his friends came to collect him, he'd be stone dead and Zsasz would have vanished. The Narrows were nothing but urban game trails to the killer, and he knew the various streets, alleys, and abandoned buildings like a tiger knew its favorite hunting grounds.

As soon as Zsasz disappeared around the corner, Montoya took off down the alley. Despite the speed she was moving at, her footing was precise and she avoided nearly all the litter on the ground. Bullock, who had never been the most graceful or surreptitious fellow, found it hard to believe just how agile his partner was. He almost felt bad for her having to deal with a clumsy lug like him.

"Harv, stare later. Get on the radio and bellow," Benson said.

"Watch it, kid," Bullock said, but he did as he was told. He clicked on his radio and bellowed like a bull moose for everything within six square miles to hear. Benson felt a moment of pity for whoever was on dispatch and had to deal with Bullock and his booming voice.

While Bullock was distracted, Benson chased after Montoya. It wasn't that he didn't trust her—because he knew she could kick his ass—he just wanted to be there for Stephens, no matter what state he was in. Besides, if Zsasz eluded her and she was forced to hunt him down, someone would have to stay with the psycho's injured (or dead, though Benson refused to consider it) victim.

Unaware that Montoya and Benson were quickly closing in on him, Zsasz paused. His arm muscles burned, but in a pleasant, post-workout way, from lugging Stephens' dead weight. The detective really was too heavy to carry any farther. Carefully, almost tenderly, the killer lowered the semi-conscious cop to the ground.

"Still with us? In and out, I see. It's probably best that way," Zsasz said.

Stephens felt the knife, still wet with his blood, fall against his throat. There was no doubt about the lethality of the injury he was about to receive. He was, for all purposes, a dead man who hadn't stopped breathing yet.

The two detectives turned the corner and were given bare seconds to react. Zsasz was positioning the blade so the back-swipe would neatly sever the jugular and carotid artery, resulting in an immensely messy but rapid demise. If they wanted to stop him, instinct and years of experience would have to guide their actions.

"Son of a bitch!" Benson shouted.

The butcher's head jerked up; his hand twitched and a thin line of blood appeared on Stephens' neck. In the moment that Benson's yell provided distraction, Montoya took the best aim she could in the dim light and fired once.

Milliseconds later, the bullet caught Zsasz high in the shoulder. Montoya had been aiming for his heart, but considering the abominable conditions, she hadn't done too poorly. The wound was damaging and shocking enough to force Zsasz away from Detective Stephens.

Bleeding, his arm wavering between numb and roaring with pain, Zsasz had no choice but to retreat. If he took the time to finish off the detective—to ensure his mark—he'd be gunned down like John Dillinger. As was, with that lioness baring down on him, demanding he drop to his knees and put his hands up, he'd be lucky to escape at all.

With the speed of a high-school track star, the psychopath bolted. Montoya ordered him to freeze, but was met with no compliance. Leaving Stephens in Benson's capable and caring hands, she sprinted after Zsasz. There was no way she could let him escape; he was guaranteed to kill again if he wasn't either apprehended or put down like the mad dog he was.

Unaware of the drama that had been unfolding between Gotham's finest and a deranged nuthouse escapee, the sound of a gunshot from the blue startled Joe and Danielle. The cabbie, who'd been fighting the desire to drift off, was snapped out of his fatigue. Danielle peered around nervously, looking for the gunman. The gunshot had sounded extremely close and the last thing she wanted was to be shot for being on some street gang's territory.

"Joe, what do you think we should do? You don't think someone was shooting _at us_, do you?" Danielle asked.

"If they were, they suck at it. They only fired once, and it sounded like they were a couple of streets over. I don't know _what_ the idiot was trying to hit, but I doubt it was us," Joe said.

"You're probably right, but getting out of here would be a good idea. Because if someone's randomly shooting off a gun, I don't want to meet them."

Having never set foot in the Narrows, Danielle had no idea where to go. Joe wasn't much help, since the average resident of the Narrows had no money to spend on taxi service. With no advice on hand, she drove wherever her woman's intuition suggested. Since her woman's intuition was about as reliable as an over-the-phone psychic, she drove around with slightly less purpose and progress than a goldfish swimming around its bowl.

"Maybe we should head for where the sun's rising. At least then we'll know what direction we're headed in," Danielle suggested.

"Alright, go west. It's as good a plan as any."

"But doesn't the sun rise in the east?"

"Does it?"

At that moment, Joe realized that should he ever become lost in the wilderness and forced to find his way home using just celestial navigation, he would die of starvation eons before he found true north.

"Wherever the hell it rises, drive towards it. We'll hit a gas station or some inhabited houses or the river eventually," Joe said.

Intent on following the slowly creeping sun, Danielle's mind wandered away from the lone gunshot. It wandered away from watching the road as carefully as it should have been, too. She didn't see the deranged figure dash into the center of the road like a deer until it was almost too late. Joe's shout of alarm brought her eyes away from the lightening sky and back to the road in front of her.

"Holy shit! What's he doing in the middle of the street? That is _not_ how you hail a taxi," Joe muttered.

Danielle squinted in the poor light and noticed something horrifying. The man hadn't run into the street because he was stupid or insane. He'd run out because he was bleeding and desperate. He needed help, and he obviously hoped the providential taxi would offer him a ride to safety. Danielle couldn't deny her conscience; she called out to the man.

"Were you shot? We heard a gunshot a few minutes ago. Hurry up, you can ride in the back," Danielle said.

Something about the bloody man rubbed Joe the wrong way. It was a nagging feeling, a tickle in the back of his brain that warned him to be careful. Sure, the guy looked like some unlucky schmuck who'd probably gotten in a fight or pissed off the wrong person, but Joe didn't trust him, didn't want him coming anywhere near the cab.

"Watch him, Danielle, watch him. There's something…something I don't like about him," Joe said.

"I don't think he's dangerous. It's whoever attacked him we need to—"

"Do not let him into your vehicle! Zsasz, stop, or I will shoot!"

The car's occupants turned in their seats to see a female cop, weapon drawn, emerge from an alley. While their attention was on Montoya, Zsasz revealed what he had up his sleeve: his knife. Fortune had brought him a free ride, and if he had to behead the driver to get it, he would.

* * *

Random and brain-torturing question of the chapter: would you rather share a taxi with Zsasz or Scarecrow, assuming both are allowed their notorious tools of the trade?


	35. 36 Eyes on Ringo

Wow. Really, I can't think of any other way to put it. Wow. You reviewers absolutely stunned me with the sheer volume of your responses. I want to thank you all so much for that truly epic display of awesome. Thank you! Thank you so much!

And the results for last chapter's question: 10 would ride with Scarecrow, three with Zsasz, and one would rather commit suicide by playing in traffic.

* * *

Schiff had apparently stripped a sheet off his mattress, laid it flat on the floor, and then shoveled all his personal possessions on top. Once he'd gathered everything of value, he'd wrapped the junk up and thrown the bulging sack over his shoulder like a hobo's bindle. Crane was having only limited success forcing down his laughter as Schiff, weighed down by the sack, teetered into the room. He looked like an underweight schizophrenic Santa Claus who hadn't bothered to don his customary cheery suit before heading out to deliver presents.

"Can you even carry that down the stairs, let alone across the Narrows?" Crane asked.

"I think so," Schiff replied.

Crane had a hunch that gravity would overwhelm the power of positive thinking, and his theory was proven correct when Thomas toppled backwards and landed atop his sack. Schiff flailed his feet like an overturned turtle and tried to sit up while still holding onto the bag. He eventually admitted that he couldn't lift the sack, and left it lying on the floor.

"You can't even carry it _to_ the stairs. Get rid of the excess weight unless you want to be caught and sent back to Arkham."

Thomas spread open the sheet and tried to decide what he wanted to abandon. Out of curiosity, Crane looked down at the pile of hastily gathered belongings. He immediately wondered where Schiff had found half of the crap he'd tried to take along. Some of the items were entirely unfamiliar, and must have been picked up from the streets. That mean Schiff had left the apartment building—several times, if the sheer volume of objects was any hint—without Crane knowing. That made the doctor paranoid about what else his pet might have been up to behind his back.

"Is that—is that a pet rock? No, it's a pet _boulder_. Leave it," Crane said, noting the ten pound stone Schiff had glued googly eyes to. The schizophrenic hadn't been satisfied with the traditional two eyes that every legitimate pet rock sported. He had glued, all over the dome-like top of the rock, no fewer than three dozen plastic eyes. The stone looked like the pet rock of some hideous, optically well endowed alien race.

"Alright. Ringo can stay here. I don't think he'll go anywhere," Schiff said, removing the rounded stone from the bundle.

Crane was not going to ask why Schiff had named his rock after the Beatles' drummer. Some questions in life were best kept inside, never posed and forever unanswered.

The rock accounted for some of the weight, but its exclusion alone wouldn't lighten Schiff's burden enough. Crane nudged the bundle's huddled contents with his foot, trying to untangle clothes from heavier, less-necessary things. Thomas shifted from foot to foot, trying to hide his agitation as Crane sorted through his personal possessions. The schizophrenic felt like a teenage boy who had discovered his mother cleaning his room scant inches from his secret stash of dirty magazines.

"Why do you have my toaster? I was wondering where that disappeared to."

Schiff didn't know why he'd snatched the toaster; he supposed it was something akin to an impulse buy. He'd seen it, for bizarre reasons it attracted him, and he'd kidnapped it. It had been living in his closet for the past two weeks. Scarecrow had thrown such a fit when he couldn't make his waffles that Thomas had been too terrified to return the appliance.

With the toaster gone, the sack's weight dropped another five pounds. Crane figured that would suffice. He wasn't particularly eager to find out anything else that Schiff had stolen from him, as it would only make him angry and possibly prod him into doing something he'd regret. As much as Crane hated to rely on anyone or anything—except Scarecrow and his fearsome chemicals—he realized the schizophrenic could be useful. If nothing else, Schiff and his bag would make an easy target for the police, hopefully distracting the GCPD long enough for Crane to worm his way to safety.

"If you can lift that, we can leave," Crane said.

"Okay, Dr. Crane. Where's your stuff?" Schiff asked, noticing the doctor's lack of baggage.

"I will be traveling as light as possible. My briefcase is all I should need. I took care to collect the basic necessities."

By "collect the basic necessities," Crane meant that he'd retrieved his scalpel, cleaned the blood from it, and had stashed it in his briefcase. Accompanying the scalpel, Crane had also gathered enough fear toxin—the aerosol version, which was infinitely more effective than the liquid version in combat situations—to permanently incapacitate every citizen of Liechtenstein. His mask, which he held dearer than anything so hideous ought ever to be held, had been secreted on his person. If he had to distract and incapacitate the police with a toxic smokescreen, he'd need the mask on hand so he wouldn't gas himself.

"Are we ready now, Dr. Crane? Can we leave?" Thomas asked, practically bouncing like a child the morning of the big trip to Disney World.

"I believe you're forgetting something," Crane replied.

"I am? Is it clean underpants?"

"I hope not but I'm not going to check. Your shoes, Thomas, your shoes are missing."

Schiff looked down and noticed his socks, both filthy beyond belief, were all that covered his feet. He scanned the room and soon found his shoes. He grabbed them both, squashed them together in joyous reunion, and then slipped them on. With his feet properly protected, Schiff was allowed to gather up his lightened sack. Crane let his pet lead the way.

The odd pair had none of the trouble Joe had had descending the stairs. They made it to the moribund emergency exit sign at the bottom of the stairs without suffering any major spills, mishaps, or disasters. Schiff, without waiting for a command, pushed open the door and stepped into what was quickly becoming proper morning light.

"When we get where we're going, can I go to sleep?" Schiff asked, realizing he'd spent the entire night running errands for Dr. Crane, getting abused by angry hobos, and wrestling screaming, terrified girls.

"If we make it without attracting the police, you can do whatever the hell you want," Crane replied, and joined Schiff in the growing brightness.

In order to attract police attention away from its current focus, Schiff and Crane would have had to blow up a building, rob a bank, hold Bruce Wayne hostage and kick a puppy. All while operating completely naked. That _might_ have earned them a glance from Benson, Bullock or Montoya.

Benson was kneeling by his partner's side, trying to determine how bad Stephens had been hurt. There was blood—far, far too much of it—and Benson quivered at the sight of all that fresh, wet red. It should have been inside Stephens, transporting oxygen and fighting microbes and whatever the hell else blood did. Instead, it was staining an ever-spreading patch of the detective's shirt and draining the life out of him.

"Jerry, Jesus, can you hear me?" Benson asked.

"I don't know about Jesus, but I can hear you," Stephens said. His voice was weak, no higher than a whisper, but it flooded Benson with relief.

"Thank you God. Alright, Jerry, help's on the way. Bullock called for an ambulance and Montoya went after Zsasz. Sit tight, okay?"

Bullock ran onto the scene, sounding slightly winded both from screaming at dispatch and from hustling down the block. He gave Stephens a quick once-over and winced. That was a lot of blood and there was only going to be more of it until something was done about the source. Benson was providing plenty of moral support, but that alone wouldn't keep the stabbed detective alive.

"Kid, there'll be plenty of time to talk later. We need to stop the bleeding now," Bullock said.

"Right, of course we do," Benson said. He sounded clueless and Bullock rolled his eyes.

"If you're in shock and gonna be useless, move the hell over. And gimme your shirt while you're at it."

Benson stared in blank confusion. "My…shirt?"

"Yeah, we've gotta apply pressure to the wound, and your shirt's cleaner than mine. Take it off and hand it over."

Benson stripped out of his shirt and passed it to Bullock. The detective accepted the shirt, folded it several times to make a compress, and pressed the cloth against Stephens' side. Stephens hissed in pain as Bullock applied more pressure to the compress. Having a shirt roughly shoved against a deep puncture wound was not a pleasant experience, and there wasn't much that could be done to make it any less horrible.

"Sorry," Bullock said.

With Bullock taking care of first aid, Benson was left trying to find some way to comfort his partner. He noticed Stephens' hands clenching and unclenching in an effort to deal with the monstrous pain in a way that didn't involve screaming like a woman in labor. Benson took the detective's right hand, interlaced Stephens' fingers with his own, and gave the larger hand a comforting squeeze. Stephens returned the gesture with all the strength he could muster; Benson felt like he'd just had his hand gripped by a particularly weak second grader.

Maintaining steady pressure on the makeshift compress, Bullock checked the shirt bandage and got a positive sign. The top layer of the cloth was still unblemished blue: Stephens hadn't bled all the way through. The flow of blood was slowing; it might even have stopped beneath the shirt. Bullock wasn't about to pull the compress away and find out definitively, but there was nothing wrong with hoping.

"You're doing good, Stephens. Real good. As long as nothing's nicked inside you, you'll probably make it. Yeah, that's what I'm thinking," Bullock said.

"That's comforting, Doctor," Benson muttered.

"Hey, I've seen a lot of guys not make it, so I know what they look like. But he doesn't look like that, okay?"

"That's even more comforting."

Bullock snorted. "Jeez, I don't know how you put up with this kid's crap. If I had to deal with him, I'd push him down some stairs and say he slipped."

"If I was your partner, I'd report that threat against my life."

"If you were my partner, I'd quit."

Stephens managed to smile at the exchange Benson and Bullock were having. It was amusing, really, watching the personalities verbally spar. Bullock was every bit as refined in his speech as he was in his dress and his eating habits. Benson got himself into trouble by opening his mouth before his brain had a chance to filter out inappropriate content.

"He's smiling. You look at that and tell me he isn't gonna make it," Bullock said.

The smile was wan, but Benson had to admit it did inspire confidence in Bullock's unprofessional prognosis. Yes, someone who was bleeding internally could smile, but there was something about _that_ smile in particular that suggested Stephens' organs were not, at that moment, hemorrhaging. Stephens looked like he was going to pull through, and from what Benson knew of the man, his looks were rarely if ever deceiving.

"I'll live," Stephens said, and the words sounded true to his ears. Far too quiet and feeble for his taste, but true nonetheless.

"You damn better live, Jerry, because you've got a deal to keep. _Tom and Jerry_, probably not this weekend for obvious reasons, but soon," Benson said.

"Oh God, I wish the maniac had just killed me."

Said maniac was occupied not so much with killing as getting into the taxi and getting away from Montoya before she put another bullet into him. Now that he'd revealed the knife, he had to move quickly before the taxi's driver recovered her senses and either put the car in reverse or stomped on the gas pedal and flattened him. Luckily for him (but certainly not for Joe, Danielle and Montoya), Zsasz's ruse of pretending to be an innocent, injured soul had gotten him close to the cab.

Before Danielle could shift the car into reverse and make backwards tracks, Zsasz appeared in the window, blade glinting. Danielle shrieked, tried to propel out of her seat, but was snagged by the seatbelt. The harness tightened around her shoulder and abdomen and held her like an animal in a net, completely helpless and open to attack.

"Unbuckle it! Stop flailing and unbuckle it!" Joe shouted.

Danielle's hand groped for the belt's release mechanism. In her panic, she missed it and ended up grabbing at Joe's pant leg, instead. Since Joe was better positioned, he hit the button. The belt unbuckled, Danielle kicked off the door, and squirmed away into the passenger's seat.

Joe suddenly found Danielle sitting in his lap. It was not an enjoyable situation, as Danielle was far too heavy to support comfortably, and her terrified and desperate wriggling was putting extra stress on Joe's internal organs. Especially his bladder. The weight of a woman pressing down on his gut reminded him that he hadn't been allowed a single potty break all night.

The driver's door swung open and Zsasz poked his head in. The situation inside the cab was peculiar; the passenger, instead of being in the back seat as was customary, was sitting up front. A cabbie, especially a female cabbie, should have been too worried about personal safety to allow a stranger to sit so close to her. The cabbie was either entirely too trusting, something ungodly had happened to the backseat, or she knew her passenger.

A moment later, Zsasz registered abnormalities that transcended a misplaced passenger. The passenger was a bloody, sliced-up mess. His face had been carved, his hand, which he was gingerly holding away from his body, had apparently been poked full of holes, and patches of the man's pants and shirt were stained red. Someone had recently done a number on him, and the killer wondered who.

Joe stared at the bastard who'd just had the audacity to barge into his cab. The earlier feeling of déjà-vu was now like a raging itch in the forefront of the cabbie's mind. He _knew_ the knife-wielding asshole. He'd seen him before, and recently. But where?

"I almost ran you over."

Zsasz looked sharply at the bloody passenger. "You did what now?"

"Yesterday evening, I saw you. You were standing in the road, waving that big knife around, and I yelled something to you. It was—"

"You told me you had a bag of straw I could cut open. But then you had second thoughts and I had to leap out of the way. I remember."

Zsasz climbed into the cab and slammed the door. He regarded Joe and Danielle, and ruminated on what to do with them. He could probably reach over and stab them both to death—they were in such a confined space it would be easy—but it wasn't wise to waste free hostages. That pretty little cop was not likely to give up the chase until she'd either caught her prey or had been killed by it. A little insurance couldn't hurt.

"We're going for a ride," Zsasz said.

"Like hell we are. Take the cab, I don't care enough to try and stop you, but the two of use aren't going," Joe said. He fumbled for the door handle.

Before Joe could get the door open, Zsasz put the pedal to the metal. Joe was thrown back against his seat and Danielle was pressed against his chest.

"You're staying because I may need you. Look back and tell me if you see that cop," Zsasz said.

"I'm not doing shit for you," Joe responded. "You stole my car."

Violating one of the most important rules of driving—never take your eyes off the road—Zsasz looked over his shoulder, trying to see where Montoya was standing. He couldn't spot her. Maybe she'd run off to wait for more of her police friends.

That idea was shattered when Montoya shot out both rear tires, bringing Zsasz's joyride to a premature end.

* * *

Random question of the chapter: Would you rather play with Schiff and Ringo the pet rock, or watch _Tom and Jerry _with Benson?


	36. A Turn For the Better

Thank you all for the reviews!

Here are the results from last chapter's question: Schiff and Ringo get one vote, Benson gets three, and both also gets three. So the write-in candidate ties for the lead.

In other news, I know I made this announcement before, but this time my brain's not going to decide to birth a major sub-plot. I swear. This story is almost over. This will be either the second or third to last chapter. So, depending on how it goes, one or two more chapters.

* * *

The crippled taxi, its rear tires flat and thumping against the pavement, rolled to a slow stop. Montoya sprinted for the taxi, her gun drawn and aimed at the driver's side door. She was not about to risk giving Zsasz another opportunity to run for it. The chase the killer had led the detective on was perhaps the most harrowing pursuit Montoya had ever experienced—Zsasz was like a rabbit, darting through the warren of the Narrows with incredible speed and agility—and she wasn't sure if she could get him cornered again.

"Put your hands out the window! Let me see your hands!" Montoya ordered.

Nothing inside the cab moved. Montoya slowed her pace from a full run to a creep. She had no idea what the situation inside the cab was—Zsasz could have already murdered whoever was inside or he could just as easily be holding them hostage—and moving in too quickly might do more harm than good. Startling the killer would only make him more unpredictable and violent.

"Last warning, Zsasz, hands up!"

"Detective, I can hear you fine. No need to shout. I'm afraid I can't put my hands up; they're a little occupied, you see."

Off the top of her head, Montoya could think of several hundred things Zsasz could be doing with his hands that would violate the law. Hoping whatever his busy hands were up to wouldn't constitute a capital offense—homicide, for instance—Montoya inched closer to the driver's window. She saw the killer's back was to her, but his body blocked Montoya's view of the rest of the cab. The cop couldn't see what Zsasz's hands were doing, or what the state of any passengers might be, unless she got even closer.

Deciding it was worth the risk, Montoya stepped closer, perhaps close enough to be in range should Zsasz suddenly turn around and bristle the knife at her. She could now see over the madman's shoulder and into the interior of the taxi. Instantly, the cop saw what had occupied Zsasz's hands: it was the two passengers' hands.

As soon as the car had come to a halt, Zsasz had turned on Joe and Danielle. He'd had little choice in who his hostage would be—one passenger was sitting on top of the other—but he'd been quite pleased with his luck nonetheless. The police officer who was now standing just outside the cab was a woman, and being presented with a female hostage would hopefully affect her. Girl power and female unity could be twisted against the modern woman given the proper circumstances.

Zsasz's plan to throw Montoya off by threatening Danielle had been derailed, however, when Joe intervened. As the killer had reached for Danielle, Joe had made his move. He'd grabbed the killer's wrist, holding him back. When Zsasz tried to cut off a few of Joe's fingers and force him to let go, Danielle had followed the cabbie's example.

Even with the effort split between them, Joe and Danielle were not having an easy time keeping Zsasz under control. Joe was forced to use only his good hand, putting him in an awkward position to begin with. Danielle had to contend with the carving knife that, she had noticed, was streaked with fresh blood. Their handicaps excluded, the man they were trying to restrain was simply strong. Zsasz could give two completely healthy people a difficult time, even in a fair and balanced fight where he wasn't allowed to leap from the shadows like some sick ninja.

Montoya wasn't going to stand there and force Danielle and Joe to hold Zsasz indefinitely. She calmly walked the remaining distance to the car, pressed the muzzle of her gun against the back of the killer's head, and told him to either drop the knife or bid his gray matter adieu.

Wisely, Zsasz decided to keep his brain intact and inside his skull. He opened his hand and the knife dropped out. Joe's maimed hand batted the blade onto the floor. Despite the pain moving his horribly injured hand caused, the cabbie was not taking any risks. The night had been enough of a satanic rollercoaster and Joe was more than ready to get off.

With Montoya keeping her gun trained on him the whole time, Zsasz was forced out of the taxi. He'd been arrested before and knew protocol well enough: face down on the ground, hands behind the back, don't anger the arresting officer into tasering you. He couldn't say he wasn't disappointed when Montoya slapped cuffs on him, but at least he'd been prepared. He'd also had his fun—plenty of it, more than he'd had in ages—so he'd have good memories to occupy him.

"Will you read me my rights, detective?" Zsasz asked. "If you don't, I may escape justice on a technicality."

Montoya glared at the cuffed killer. She didn't want to give him his Miranda Rights—she didn't believe he deserved the protection of _any_ human rights—but if some grease ball lawyer made a fuss, Zsasz could theoretically walk. If that happened, Montoya didn't want to imagine what she'd do. It would probably get her kicked off the force and possibly earn her a stay in a comfy jail cell.

"You have the right to remain—Holy hell, what happened to the two of you?"

"That's a new line. I don't remember that particular phrase—"

"Shut up, Zsasz. You two, come here. Oh my God."

Joe and Danielle had emerged from the taxi, and Montoya got her first clear look at them. As they approached the cop, she was able to see the full extent of the damage Scarecrow had done to them. Montoya was as appalled as she was confused. Questions immediately sprang to mind, but she'd ask them only after she'd called for an ambulance and for someone to come and collect Zsasz's ass.

After radioing in her position, letting everyone know Zsasz had been apprehended, and requesting medical assistance, Montoya headed for the beaten duo. The female half of the pair didn't seem to be hurt too badly—there was some blood on her chin reminiscent of a split lip and she looked exhausted—but the male half looked like he'd gone slogging through hell. Montoya had no idea how he'd picked up the peculiar injuries he bore, but she intended to find out.

"Who are you two, and what happened?" Montoya figured being blunt would work best.

Instead of giving an answer, the pair fell on Montoya. For a brief second, she thought she was being attacked. Then she realized she was being hugged, and vigorously.

"Officer, I've never been so happy to see a cop in my entire life. Thank you, you're a wonderful public servant, oh, I think I love you," Joe said.

"That's wonderful, thank you, but please tell me who's hugging me," Montoya said.

Instead of getting coherent names, Montoya discovered what it was like to be a Kleenex at a funeral. The people clutching her began to cry on her shoulders and what might have been coherent answers became blubbering, unintelligible bursts of words. The cop tried to comfort Joe and Danielle as best she could, though it was hard, considering how they had attached themselves like lampreys to her.

"Whatever happened to you, it's over. You're safe now, and if you can tell me what's going on—"

"The Scarecrow! All night, needles and poison and my demonic grandmother and a freaking scalpel!"

"I was just trying to get to her birthday party! She's 80 years old! And then there was this horse in the middle of the road!"

"And the mask had a bug for a tongue! Jesus Christ, I wanted to puke. It was there, wiggling, like a maggot."

"He pulled my hair so I couldn't run away. Then there was gas, and I saw blood everywhere!"

Montoya tried to glean something succinct from the random, bizarre exclamations. It was like trying to identify individual pieces of debris inside a powerful tornado. Words were flying by so fast, and with seemingly no cohesion, that the officer was left confounded. Obviously something traumatizing and horrible had happened to these two, but pinning down anything concrete was next to impossible.

"Alright, alright, everyone has to calm down and take turns speaking. I can't understand either of you if you're both shouting at once," Montoya said.

Joe and Danielle were kind enough to take their hands off the confused cop. They both took deep breaths, and then Joe gave Danielle the stage. He figured she'd be more articulate—and would swear quite a bit less.

"Last night, I got off a flight from Seattle. I flagged down a taxi—Joe's taxi—and he was driving me to see my grandmother. She turned 80 yesterday, and I missed her party. We were pretty close to her house when this guy on a horse showed up right in the road and Joe almost hit the horse. The cab spooked it and it ran off, so its rider needed a lift. The rider was the Scarecrow, and he kidnapped us. He made Joe drive to his secret lab or torture chamber or whatever the hell it was. And he did _things_ to us," Danielle explained.

"Experimented on us, drugged us, cut me with a scalpel. Bastard shot me, too," Joe added.

"So the good doctor's still practicing. Is he the same self-righteous little—" Zsasz said, only to be cut off.

Montoya said, "You have the right to remain silent. Use it."

Turning back to Joe and Danielle, who had composed themselves much better, she said, "You're telling me you spent the night being abused by the Scarecrow, is that right?"

"Absolutely," Danielle said.

"Sums it up," Joe said.

"And you survived, both of you, mentally intact. Incredible."

"We were just as surprised as you, actually. Now, if you don't mind, officer, I need to sit down before I fall down," Joe said.

The cabbie lowered himself to the ground and knew he wasn't going to be getting up without assistance from paramedics. His energy reserves were gone, completely and truly. If the Scarecrow had walked up to him at that point, Joe wouldn't have had the strength to flip him the bird. Fighting with the knife-wielding screwball had burned through Joe's last drops of energy, and now he was in a state of total mental and physical exhaustion.

"Are you going to be alright, Joe?" Danielle asked.

"Tired," Joe muttered.

Montoya realized she still didn't have names to pin on the pair of survivors. The man's first name was Joe—asking his surname could wait—but she didn't know the woman's name. The officer decided asking now that things had calmed down would be a good idea.

"Me? I'm Danielle Kaminski. I've got my driver's license if you want to see it," Danielle said.

"Danielle…Kaminski. Granddaughter of Sophia Kaminski?" Montoya asked.

Danielle's jaw dropped open. "Yes, I am, but how did you know?"

"She came into the police station several hours ago, waving around her cell phone, and telling everyone in earshot her granddaughter had been kidnapped. She had the text message to prove it."

"I love you, Grandma, I love you."

"We'll get you two reunited as quickly as possible. She can meet you at the hospital, as soon as we figure which one you'll be heading to. Since Gotham General's out of commission for at least another six months, several smaller hospitals have been picking up the slack. It can make things chaotic, though," Montoya said.

Having given Danielle good news, Montoya figured Detective Stephens could probably use some, too. He'd been originally assigned the task of finding Danielle, and now that she was found, he could let go of that burden. The less stress he had weighing on him, the better off he'd be.

Several blocks away, Benson removed his radio from his belt and placed it next to Stephens' head. The injured detective listened to Montoya's message, and then broke into a grin. Hearing that his job was done, the missing woman had been located alive and well, and that tenacious grandmother of hers would be able to cool down and not frighten any more cops was the best news Stephens could have gotten. Hearing earlier that Montoya had handed Zsasz's ass to him hadn't been too shabby, either.

Benson took his radio back and informed Montoya that she had made Stephens a very happy man. A few seconds after Montoya disconnected, the radio came to life again. It was the last third of Stephens' phone hunting party. The pair of detectives that had managed to miss all the action finally felt like calling in to report where they'd been: lost. Apparently, neither of them knew the Narrows from the streets of Moscow. They'd remained quiet because begging for directions while Stephens had been having a knife stabbed into him had seemed distasteful. Now that Stephens was knife-free and his attacker was lying in the dirt, securely cuffed, the two wayward officers had finally informed everyone of their shame.

"You know, we could have used your help," Benson said to the embarrassed detectives.

Bullock snatched the radio from Benson's hand. "If you didn't know where the hell you were going, why didn't you tell someone? When I get through with you, you'll never want anything except desk duty for the rest of your careers! Do you hear me? And people accuse _me_ of being a bad cop! I ain't gotten lost once!"

While Bullock chewed the unlucky detectives out, Benson looked down at Stephens. His grin had faded—it was quite hard to maintain happiness when iron claws of agony dug into you—but he looked alright. Not great, not perky or chipper, but alright. And Benson thought alright was encouraging.

"Ambulance ought to be here soon, Jerry. Any minute now. Always assuming the driver's not as clueless as Gary and Marcus," Benson said.

"If the driver's as clueless as those two morons, he'll crash off a bridge and into the river. You damn better hope he's got half a brain, at least," Bullock groused.

The ambulance driver did have a fully functioning brain and made his approach known with whooping bursts of sirens. Benson heard the wailing first—his ears were the youngest and sharpest—and he informed everyone of its imminent arrival. Bullock muttered that it had taken long enough. Inside, he was eternally grateful the ambulance was nearly there. He wanted nothing more than to put Stephens' life in professional hands.

A few minutes after the initial sound of sirens, the ambulance appeared on the street. It was closely trailed by several squad cars, each looking to provide backup that was no longer needed. Whether the extra officers were needed or not, they were more than welcome, anyway. If nothing else, they could rescue the lost and helpless Gary and Marcus.

A pair of paramedics emerged from the back of the ambulance. Bullock stepped away from Stephens with a look of pure gratitude on his face. The EMTs set to work, making sure there was no risk Stephens would bleed to death should they attempt to move him. After they were satisfied the detective was stable enough for transport, they carefully lifted him onto a gurney.

"Jerry, wave like the injured football players do," Benson suggested. Bullock discreetly slapped him on the back of the head.

Stephens, as he was being loaded into the ambulance, managed to bring a hand up. Benson and Bullock returned the gesture, though there was no mistaking the dirty look Benson shot Bullock.

"As soon as we're done here, I'll be at the hospital. I'll be there as long as you need me. I'll sleep on the floor in your room if they'll let me," Benson said.

"They won't let you sleep on the floor but they might let you have a chair. And tell whoever's waiting for the second ambulance that the ETA's about four minutes. We'll take good care of him, officers," one of the paramedics said before swinging the door shut.

The ambulance sped away, lights flashing to warn all motorists to get the hell out of the way. Once it was out of sight, Bullock turned to Benson.

"Four minutes should be long enough to teach Zsasz a lesson."

Benson hesitated, but for only a second. "No, Harvey."

"Just a quick one? Knock a few teeth out, break an arm or two?"

"As much as I want to, no."

"Damn it."

* * *

Yeah, I realized I had originally mentioned six cops—two in each of three squad cars—and two of them basically disappeared. Bad writer, bad! So here they are, closing a plot-hole. Poor forgotten fuzz…

Anyway, random question of the chapter: suppose you were in Bullock's position. Would you beat the crap out of Zsasz, or take the moral road and only imagine you were beating the crap out of him?


	37. Don't Tase Me, Bro!

I am sad, joyous, and relieved to report that this is the second to last chapter. That's right, folks, one more to go.

Thanks for the reviews! You guys never fail to make me smile, but not in a carved, scary Joker way.

The results for the last chapter's question: five people would beat the crap out of Zsasz and damn the consequences, and eight would take the moral high road for various reasons.

* * *

In the broad daylight, Crane felt terribly exposed and out of place among his surroundings. No one in the Narrows, not even the people who had legal, paying jobs, wore suits; their meager salaries didn't warrant anything nicer than clean slacks. Accompanying the suit, he was clean-shaven—relatively, at least, considering he hadn't had time to grab a razor before leaving—his hair didn't make him look like a deranged hippy, and he didn't smell like a hog that had been bathed in cheap liquor. He would appear to every possible inhabitant as an outsider, and the last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself.

"Maybe I should have done as Scarecrow suggested and let my hair grow a little. No, absolutely not. He might enjoy looking like something that stepped out of the 80's. I would not," Crane said to his own thoughts.

Schiff, pack slung over his shoulder, looked at the doctor. "Were you saying something to me?"

"No, I was considering the state of my appearance."

"Oh. What did you decide? Do you like it or don't you?"

"It's too conspicuous. How could I change my clothing so I don't look like an easy mark for any desperate addict?"

Schiff considered it for a moment, and then dropped his bindle. He walked around Crane a few times, getting to know every inch of the doctor's suit, and then stood in front of Crane like an artist surveying a blank canvass. Crane saw the look of deep concentration on the schizophrenic's face and regretted ever breaching the subject.

"Buttons. I can never button buttons the right way. The holes never match up right, but yours do," Schiff said.

Crane dropped his briefcase to free his hands. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and then, throwing out all self-respect, purposely slid the bottom button in the top slot. This gave his suit a ridiculously lopsided look. No sane professional would ever leave the house with his clothes in such disarray, but way-south-of-crazy was exactly the look Crane needed if he wanted to be passed over as just one more nutty but mostly harmless hobo.

"Everything's too clean," Schiff said.

"I'm not going to roll in the mud."

"You don't need to _roll_ in it, just get a little dirty. It doesn't matter how much dirt you have, because most people don't have any at all. People who have dirt tend to get ignored by the people who don't have any."

Coming from Thomas, that was downright philosophical. Knowing he was going to hate it—but suspecting Scarecrow would have welcomed the chance to disgrace the suit and get down and dirty—Crane allowed his pet to gather two handfuls of slimy mud from a nearby gutter. He had to resist the natural urge to smack Schiff when the schizophrenic began smearing the mud all over him. Schiff took to his task with manic glee, and seemed to forget entirely about making Crane only a little dirty.

"Enough! More than enough!"

Schiff stopped plastering his boss with filth and stepped back to admire his work. Crane looked like someone who had been lost for a week in a swamp. Mud was chaotically splattered and streaked across his clothes, with the heaviest concentration coating his chest. Some of the wet muck had made its disgusting way onto his neck, and Crane wiped it off with his hand. Then he realized his hand was muddy and there was precious little clean fabric left to use as a towel.

"Good, yeah, that's good. Now nobody will want to look at you or come close," Schiff said, nodding his approval.

"You'd better hope so. Because if I am caught in this despicable condition, I know a certain schizophrenic who will be taking a trip to the morgue," Crane said.

"It's a good disguise, Doctor Crane. You don't look out of place now. You won't have to kill me."

Incredibly unhappy by how far he'd fallen from his glory days, Crane retrieved his briefcase and Schiff hoisted up his sack. They had quite a distance to go, and the longer they remained exposed, the higher the risk someone would notice the very dirty doctor and his tag-along. Intending to make the journey as quickly as possible, Crane led the way and stayed close to buildings and the obscuring shadows they provided.

While Crane did his best to appear inconspicuous, Joe did his best to stay awake until the ambulance arrived. He didn't want to greet the paramedics with snores, and he didn't want any of them to hurt their backs trying to lift his snoozing carcass. He wanted to thank them for their great service, thank the doctors in the hospital for their great service, and _then_ pass out once said wonderful doctors broke out their various medical instruments of torture.

"I take it you don't want to be interviewed right this second," Montoya said, noting the way Joe's head kept nodding down and then jerking back up as he struggled to stay awake.

"Couldn't get much out of me, even if you tried," Joe replied.

Wishing she had a blanket to throw over Joe's shoulders, Montoya instead offered the cabbie a sympathetic pat on the back.

"Don't worry about it. I don't think you'll forget any major details any time soon," she said.

"I don't think I'll forget any of it, ever, for as long as I live," Joe said.

"I know how to make you forget," Zsasz offered.

Montoya glared sharply at the handcuffed killer. "Fifth Amendment. Invoke it."

Despite the pain in his shoulder from having his injured arm rudely restrained behind his back in such an intolerable position, Zsasz grinned up at Montoya. She almost recoiled in disgust but managed to hold her ground, even if she couldn't keep her face entirely impassive. The killer's smile affected the officer in the same way that the Scarecrow's laugh had affected Joe; what should have been a pleasant sign of happiness was warped into something inhuman and ugly.

"He's already been cut quite a few times, so what's once more?"

"Shut it!"

"I won't do it with cruelty, not like the good doctor did. Just one quick, clean cut and that will—"

Montoya pulled the Taser from her belt and stalked towards Zsasz. The look on her face suggested she'd much rather use her gun on him. The combination of the cop's scowl and her drawn weapon let Zsasz know he was in serious trouble. He quickly shut his mouth and placed his head back on the ground in a futile attempt to placate Montoya.

"Either of you have a problem with this?" Montoya asked, motioning at Zsasz with the Taser. She wouldn't do it if either Joe or Danielle voiced opposition—they might make a complaint against her and she wasn't going to lose her badge or face suspension because Zsasz pissed her off.

"Absolutely not. He's horrible," Danielle said.

"Go to town," Joe said. "I've always wanted to see someone get tased."

With permission granted, Montoya pressed the Taser against the killer's back. She told herself that he deserved it for what he'd done to Stephens, he deserved it for hijacking the taxi and threatening its occupants, he deserved it for the murders he'd gotten away with. Her finger tightened on the electroshock gun's trigger.

"What'd the son of a bitch do now?"

Montoya looked up to see Bullock, Benson and another officer she couldn't immediately pin a name on. All three cops were glaring at Zsasz with evident distaste. Though she wasn't going to ask, Montoya was relatively sure none of the officers would mind if she ran a few thousand volts through the psycho's body. If anything, Bullock looked eager to join in.

"We came to collect _that_," Bullock said, poking his finger in Zsasz's direction. "But before he goes anywhere, I want to know what he did."

"He threatened to kill me," Joe said.

"Offered, not threatened," Zsasz amended, as though the semantics made all the difference in the world.

"Yeah, that's all we're gonna hear out of you, buddy. Let's go," Bullock said.

Benson and the unnamed officer yanked Zsasz to his feet. The killer was compliant as they started to lead him towards the newly arrived squad cars. He knew there was nothing he could do, restrained and weaponless as he was, against four well-armed police officers. He would certainly have savored the chance to kill each and every one of them, but it was not to be.

As he was being marched away, Zsasz called back to Montoya, "I'll remember your face, detective. I hope to someday have the pleasure of cutting open that lovely brown swan neck of yours."

Bullock's punch took Zsasz down without fuss. The psychopath collapsed to his knees, his head lolled, and his entire body went limp. The only thing holding him up was the two cops gripping his upper arms.

"That's no way to speak to a lady," Bullock said, and cracked his knuckles. His hand throbbed and ached like he'd just punched a brick wall, but he wasn't going to let on to that little fact.

Zsasz was unceremoniously dragged to a waiting cruiser. He was thrown into the back like a particularly fetid bag of garbage and the door was slammed shut. Benson and his fellow officer exchanged a high-five and several encouraging words before going their separate ways. Benson stayed behind while the other cop took his place in the driver's seat. With no fanfare, the car sped off.

"Harvey?" Benson asked.

"What do you want?" Bullock responded. He was rubbing his bruised knuckles, and grimacing.

"That was awesome."

"Thanks, kid. Now why don't you stop pestering me like the parasite you are and go and see if Montoya needs any help?"

Being smart enough to see Bullock wasn't in the mood for company—and was probably looking to damage his remaining fist on the next person who pissed him off—Benson trotted off to see if Montoya needed anything. Considering all she had to do was wait for an ambulance for her rescued hostages, Benson's assistance wasn't really needed. She let him loiter around, anyway.

Despite his lack of Irish ancestry, Benson had exhibited the gift of gab from an early age. He felt a compulsive need to break the silence. His recent near-death experience made his usual urges to strike up a conversation with anyone in the vicinity even stronger. He'd been forced to realize he wouldn't be around to yak forever, and his yakking days might be numbered in the single digits for all he knew. If he theoretically could be killed at any moment, he had to make the best use of breath while he had it.

"So, what happened to you guys?" Benson asked Joe and Danielle.

"Too tired for a recap," Joe said.

"Scarecrow happened to us," Danielle said.

There was no way that answer was going to satisfy Benson. He sidled closer to Danielle and pressed for scrumptious details.

"I've never experienced this myself—I'm really curious though—but did he use his fear gas on you?" Benson said.

A shiver ran through Danielle's body and she could feel the blood drain from her face. Considering the last time she'd tried to explain her ordeal she'd burst into tears and pawed at Montoya, she figured just a tremor and a little paleness wasn't too bad of a reaction. She then wondered if she'd ever be able to recount the Scarecrow's sick treatment without showing an outward sign of distress. Maybe, months or years from now, while discussing her captivity with a sympathetic Oprah.

"Yes, he used it on me. He had a liquid version that he gave to Joe," Danielle said.

"A liquid? Like he made Joe drink it?" Benson asked.

"No, he injected it."

"Like with a needle?"

Danielle didn't think there was any other way to inject something into someone. She replied, "Yes, like that."

"Holy crap, that scares me already," Benson said. He was uncomfortable around needles because, just like most things he either feared or hated, they reminded him of bees. The bee's stinger, more specifically.

"And what happened after he gave you the gas?"

"It's impossible to describe. I could tell you what I saw—blood, all over the Scarecrow and Joe and everywhere—but the fear was so intense I couldn't handle it. I was screaming, and I think I almost lost my mind. It was like my worst nightmare, but so much more horrible than anything my brain could ever think up on its own," Danielle explained.

Benson's worst nightmare had occurred not long after the bee attack at summer camp incident. He'd woken up, shrieking and slapping himself, sure that an entire hive of bees had invaded his room and were stinging all over his body. Over a decade later, he could still recall the dream vividly. He couldn't begin to imagine how much worse of an experience fear toxin would cause.

"I don't want to find out first hand, do I?" Benson asked.

"No."

"Alright, I won't ask you any more about fear gas. I really don't need anything else to give me nightmares, not after that whole Zsasz incident," Benson said.

"Who exactly is Zsasz? We saw him yesterday, back when Joe was driving to the Scarecrow's hideout, and he had a knife then, too. Why is he running around, attacking people?" Danielle asked.

Living in Seattle, Danielle had limited news about what was going on in Gotham. Of course the Scarecrow's initial attack on the Narrows had made world-wide news and the Joker's string of robberies, assassinations and terrorist attacks had left the entire country shaken, but she'd never heard any reports on Zsasz. Grandma Sophia and her many phone calls had been filled with cheerier topics by and large—jazzercise, who had found a sixth husband, what scandal Bruce Wayne was up to (Danielle believed her grandmother was a little too involved in Wayne's personal business)—and serial killers weren't often included.

"I don't know much about him, but from what Jerry—that's my partner and Zsasz stabbed him, the asshole—told me, he was a hitman for the Mob. He was good at his job, but he got caught, tried, and got off on the insanity defense. One guess who his doctor was. He escaped Arkham and obviously he's been killing a whole lot of people. It's going to be a blast, digging through unsolved homicide archives and trying to match his MO to dead homeless people," Benson said.

"Don't you have any tact? She doesn't want to hear you complain, especially not about dead homeless people," Montoya reprimanded.

"Yeah, I guess you don't need to hear stuff like that. Um, who do you think will win the Super Bowl this year?"

Montoya moaned. Where in the hell was that ambulance? If it didn't get there soon, she was going to do something drastic to Benson. Like Taser him.

As though sensing Montoya's growing chagrin at its lateness, the ambulance's flashing lights appeared at the end of the street. Montoya waved it down and the vehicle quickly came to a halt.

A pair of paramedics hopped from the back of the ambulance. One immediately went to Joe, who hardly appeared conscious, and the other hurried over to Danielle. Benson stepped out of the EMT's way and stood back to watch the proceedings.

"I want to thank you for your great service," Joe said to the paramedic that stood over him.

"I appreciate that. Now, where does it hurt?"

"Where doesn't it hurt would be a better question," Joe replied.

"Sense of humor isn't broken, that's good to see. Now, any head, neck, or back pain?"

"I headbutted the Scarecrow and almost knocked myself out, so there's definitely some head pain, with a little neck pain thrown in."

"I'll make sure they check for any signs of a concussion once you're at the hospital. I don't think you've suffered enough head trauma to warrant a backboard, so hold tight while I get the gurney," the paramedic said.

"No, I can walk," Joe replied.

The paramedic couldn't have raised his eyebrows any higher if Joe had claimed he could walk on water and heal the blind.

"I don't think you should, even if you can."

"I want to and I'm going to. Now help me up."

Ignoring his better judgment, the paramedic extended a hand to Joe. The cabbie grasped it and, with support, wobbled his way to the ambulance. Despite the EMT's doubts, Joe was able to step up into the back of the ambulance and lay himself down on a stretcher.

Danielle, accompanied by her paramedic, entered the ambulance a few seconds later. She had far less trouble getting aboard than Joe had had. Once she was situated, one of the EMTs pulled the doors shut and the ambulance rolled out, its lights flashing but its piercing siren mercifully silent.

"We made it, Joe. I can hardly believe it, but we did," Danielle said.

Joe made no response. Despite his desire to stay awake long enough to thank the doctors who would be treating him, he'd succumbed to exhaustion. He was sleeping peacefully and there was no way Danielle would disturb him.

* * *

Didn't that chapter just make everyone feel warm and content inside? Yeah, nice.

For any non-US readers, the Fifth Amendment of the US Constitution says a person can't be forced to testify against himself in court. He can choose to "remain silent".

Random question of the chapter: bees, needles, or a pissed off Detective Bullock. Which is scarier?


	38. Someone to Watch Over Me

Well, when I actually sat down and typed it out, this chapter got long. So long, in fact, that I decided it needed to become two. Once again, my brain is wordier than originally planned. So, _Plausibility _marches on.

Here's the result for last chapter's question: one person finds needles scariest, three fear bees, three fear pissed-off Bullock and one thinks the scariest would be "Angry Bullock with a needle full of bees". I have no idea how you'd pull that one off, but it's horrifying.

* * *

Joe was awoken by a bright light. His initial thought was that he had died, his body succumbing to stress or a slow-acting side effect of the Scarecrow's drug, and that light was the one at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Then the light began to move back and forth like a fairy in flight, and Joe had to consider the light was either not angelic or God was screwing with him.

"You are a heavy sleeper, my friend. I know you're tired and I promise I won't keep you up for too long. I've just got a few questions to ask and a perfunctory medical exam to do, and then you can go back to sleep."

If that voice belonged to God, wouldn't God already know all the answers as well as Joe's colorful medical history? Joe supposed that yes, God would know both those things. Therefore, the voice did not belong to God.

Joe blinked his eyes a few times and a face began to materialize behind the white light. With a few more blinks, the face took on distinct definitions and its features became clear. As Joe had suspected, the face did not belong to God, unless God was really a young, blond, acne-scarred doctor.

"Where am I?" Joe asked.

"Metropolitan Hospital. You arrived a few minutes ago. I was conducting a quick test, and you've got normal pupil dilation, so that's a good sign," the doctor replied. He clicked off his obscenely bright ophthalmoscope.

"Great news about the pupils. How long was I asleep?"

"The ambulance ride took about fifteen minutes. From what I gathered, you slept the whole way."

"No wonder I don't feel any less tired. Why the hell did you wake me up? Can't the probes wait a day or two?"

"You aren't going to be probed but I do have to assess the damage that maniac did to you. You're my first Scarecrow-related patient, so this is a learning experience for me," the doctor said, grinning brightly.

"Isn't there anyone here who has Scarecrow experience?"

"There was Dr. Patel, but, uh, he's on leave for personal reasons."

"Great."

Resigned to his fate, Joe tried to think happy thoughts and not imagine all the ways this could go wrong. The doctor produced a clipboard and a pencil. Joe's mind immediately skipped back to the Scarecrow and his clipboard and questionnaire. In a snap, all Joe's happy thoughts floated out of his head and drifted away.

"Before I examine you, I want to get down some basic information. Name, age, allergies, things like that."

"Joseph Savoca, age thirty-nine, no allergies. Can I sleep now?"

"Not yet. I've still got three more pages to fill out, and then we actually get down to business."

Joe groaned. "What more could you possibly want?"

"Date of birth, weight, current address, current medications, recent vaccinations, recent illnesses, blood type, next-of-kin…"

While Joe was giving out every intimate detail of his life, Danielle was being enveloped—and constricted—in the warm, loving embrace of Grandma Sophia. The woman, despite her official status as an octogenarian, hugged like an anaconda. Once a person was in her coils, there was no escape. That wasn't usually a problem, though; people rarely wanted to escape from the hugs.

"I had a card and a present for you, but I left them in the cab. Sorry," Danielle said as her grandmother squeezed her.

"I'm not worried about any of that. All night I thought I might lose my only grandbaby. I couldn't stand thinking about it, but I couldn't help myself. My poor Danielle. All night, just wondering where you were, if you were hurt, what I'd do if your uncle's _dog_ had to become my grandkid. My hair started falling out because I was so worried," Sophia said.

Danielle looked at the elegant, braided, silver ponytail that hung down well past her grandmother's shoulders, and decided it had not thinned by a single strand in the years since she'd last seen Grandma Sophia in person. Unless Grandma Sophia had shed from some other part of her body, she was exaggerating. Danielle was thankful for that: the image of a completely bald grandmother would scar her.

"I'm sorry I did that to you on your birthday. I'll never do it again, I promise," Danielle said.

"You damn better not! Don't you dare think for one minute I'm too old to teach you a lesson you'll never forget."

Danielle tried to laugh but the laugh dissolved into a watery sob. She clutched at her grandmother and buried her face into the woman's shirt. Grandma Sophia, Danielle discovered as she continued to cry, still hadn't picked up that famous old-lady smell. Instead, she smelled of faded jasmine perfume, sweat, and cat food. It was nice.

The two women held each other for a minute longer before slowly detaching from one another. Just as she'd done when Danielle was a child and had scraped a knee or fallen on her backside, Sophia wiped the tears from her granddaughter's face. Danielle sniffled and nearly burst into tears again at the familiar gentle gesture.

"I think we've made enough of a scene. Let's sit down and read some old magazines until they can get someone to look at you. Or until they're kind enough to tell us what's happening to your friend. I want to thank that man for saving you," Sophia said.

They picked side-by-side seats and Sophia reached over to a low table that was littered with magazines and a fresh newspaper. The morning's edition of the _Gotham Times_ was in nearly mint condition. The magazines beneath it, long-forgotten issues of _Reader's Digest_ and the ilk, looked like artifacts that had been pulled from a recently excavated time capsule.

"I believe I remember this issue from my girlhood," Sophia said, examining a mangled copy of _Time_ magazine.

As her grandmother flipped through the beaten periodical, Danielle's mind refused to focus on the newspaper. All she could think about was Joe. The paramedics had rushed him into the hospital while she'd been allowed to walk in under her own power and meet her grandmother in the waiting room. He'd been in rough shape, and Danielle wondered how he'd react to prescribed treatment. Though she wasn't a doctor, Danielle suspected some of the cuts the Scarecrow had inflicted on Joe would require stitches. She supposed she would know for sure when Joe's howling alerted everyone in the hospital.

In considerably worse shape than Joe, Detective Stephens was currently undergoing—and not enjoying—an emergency abdominal CT scan. That basically meant he was put in a giant tube and scans of his vital organs were taken. If the scans revealed Zsasz's knife had nicked some major blood vessel inside him, that meant an immediate trip to surgery and possibly a pathetic death. If the scans came up clean, Stephens could rest assured he wouldn't end up as one more notch on the sicko's skin.

It didn't take the doctors long to analyze the images and cross-sections of Stephens' insides. The detective had to take the doctors' smiles as good signs—they were actual bright, confident smiles, not the tentative kind they'd wear if they were delivering bad news but trying to keep spirits afloat.

"You, detective, are a very lucky man," one of the doctors said.

"If being stabbed is lucky, what would you consider unlucky?" Stephens replied, incredulous.

The doctor coughed. "What I meant was, considering where you were stabbed and how deep the wounds are, you were very lucky. You have to take your luck from a certain perspective, you see. It's all a matter of perspective."

Another doctor—Dr. Evans according to her name badge—stepped in to save the floundering philosopher. She did not congratulate Stephens on how fortuitous his circumstances were. She explained in remarkably clear layman's terms how close he had come to major hemorrhaging and what an inch or two could have cost.

"The knife entered the liver in both instances, but that in itself isn't a bad thing. The liver is incredibly resilient and can regenerate after suffering massive damage. If your intestines had been perforated, the risks would have been much higher. As is, the main cause for concern was the hepatic artery. It's a sizeable blood vessel, and you don't want it cut. The first puncture, the higher one, missed the artery by about an inch and a half. The second puncture, the downward angled one, passed just in front of the artery," Dr. Evans explained.

"So my liver will grow back? And I'm not going to bleed to death?" Stephens asked.

"Yes, it should heal without any major complications. And no, you aren't going to bleed to death. You could have—you lost enough blood to induce minor hypotension—but whoever held that shirt against the wound helped you significantly."

"Thank you, doctors. Can I ask you one quick favor?" Stephens said.

"Of course."

"If a guy—average height, scrawny, annoying as hell, probably wearing an undershirt—tries to bring _Tom and Jerry _DVDs into my room, have security boot him out on his ass."

Confident their patient was not in immediate danger, the doctors decided to release Stephens to his room. He was wheeled there on a stretcher and, during the journey, discovered riding an elevator while lying supine and enjoying the effects of high-potency painkillers was a mildly thrilling experience. Once the ride was over, he wished he could do it again.

"Room 375. It's got a nice view of the parking lot and a couple of trees. Oh, and a stray cat. Just look at that," the accompanying doctor said.

"If it's all the same to you, I think I'll skip the cat and go to sleep. I've been up for over 24 hours and I'm feeling it."

"Absolutely, I understand. My days as an intern all over again. Anyway, I'll report your condition to your fellow officers—quite a few of them are waiting for news—and you can rest. Oh, this must be one of those officers now. I don't know if you should have visitors…"

"Jerry! Thank God. I practically had to beat the head nurse for your room number and I thought for sure she was lying just to get rid of me."

Instead of feeling annoyance at Benson's intrusion, Stephens felt only gratitude and relief. Why? He couldn't articulate it. Maybe knowing he'd come within an inch of death had put Benson's big mouth into perspective.

"He'll behave, let him stay. I need the moral support and he doesn't take up much space," Stephens said.

Reluctantly, the doctor allowed Benson to take one of the two visitors' chairs in the room. The detective sat down, scooted the chair as close to Stephens' bed as possible, and then began to ask an array of questions.

"He needs_ rest_, not an interrogation. If you can't be quiet, I'll have to ask you to leave," the doctor warned.

Benson's mouth snapped shut and he gave the doctor a thumbs-up to let him know silence would reign. The doctor explained the emergency call button to Stephens, showed him how to turn on the room's TV once he was up to it, and warned Benson once more to be as quiet as possible.

Once the doctor was gone, Benson dared to peep, "You look good, Jerry. You wear that hospital gown really well. Looks great on you. Man, if you'd died, I think I'd kill Zsasz with my own two hands."

"I'm trying to sleep, and mentioning his name is not helping."

"Sorry, Jerry. Do you think I could hook a DVD player up to that TV? Or maybe they have the Boomerang network and—"

"Sleeping."

Silence once again filled the room. Benson watched his partner's chest fall in its slow, steady rhythm. Soon, the metronymic effect of Stephens' unconscious breathing lolled Benson to sleep as well.

With them, all was well.

Two floors down, Danielle was finished with her medical exam. She hadn't been forced to stare at the newspaper long before a doctor called her into a small office. A cursory exam revealed minimal physical damage, considering the ordeal she'd undergone. There was some bruising around her face from when the Scarecrow had slammed her against the table, but that would disappear within a week. The doctor did, though, recommend Danielle seek psychological counseling if she suffered nightmares of emotional distress.

Given a clean bill of health, Danielle wanted to do only one thing: see Joe. She asked the doctor who'd just examined her if he knew what Joe's status was. The doctor was kind enough to make a few phone calls and find out.

"Your buddy, Joe, is being, and I quote 'a difficult patient'. Apparently, he has a problem with needles, and doctors, and everything else."

"Can I see him? Maybe I can convince him not to punch anybody," Danielle said.

The doctor made a few more phone calls. Unless Danielle was mistaken, she could hear Joe swearing in the background of the last call.

"He's in Room 451; you should be able to hear him as soon as you get off the elevators. I think he's got them pulling their hair out up there."

Danielle stepped out of the office and discovered her grandmother surreptitiously tearing a photo of Bruce Wayne from the newspaper. Upon seeing her granddaughter's disapproving look, Sophia hastily folded the photo and slipped it into her purse.

"We're going to see Joe," Danielle said.

"Wonderful. I've been dying to thank him," Sophia said.

"We might have to help hold him down. He's apparently scaring people. Are you up to it, Grandma?"

"The day I can't put a man in his place is the day they bury me."

Danielle and Sophia rode the elevator up to the fourth floor. As the doctor had predicted, they heard Joe as soon as they exited the elevator.

"For the last time, you are not coming anywhere near my face with that! Go sew a quilt with it, for all I care, but keep it away from me!"

"If you'd let me numb the area, you wouldn't even feel it."

"Get the hell away from me!"

Danielle followed Joe's outrage to his room, and peeked in to see what he was shouting about. It took Joe a moment to notice her standing there, but the second he did, his demeanor completely shifted. The anger fell from his face and all signs of combativeness vanished.

"They let you up here?" Joe asked.

"They practically _sent_ me up here. My grandmother, too."

Sophia stepped into the doorframe and offered Joe a little wave. He stared at her for a second, then returned the wave.

The disgruntled doctor turned to Danielle and Sophia. "Good to see you. Maybe you can talk some sense into him."

"What's wrong, Joe?" Danielle asked.

"Doc here wants to stitch up my face. First he makes me wear this dress—he asked me if I needed help putting it on, for Christ's sake—and then he takes one look at me and tells me I need stitches. We've been fighting over his diagnosis."

"It is not a dress! It's a hospital gown, and I wasn't going to let you sit there in your own bloody, torn clothing. And you do need stitches unless you want an ugly scar on each cheek," the doctor snapped.

"He's right, Joe, both about the gown and the stitches," Danielle said.

"I _know_ he's right. I just wish like hell he wasn't. I don't want stitches and I don't want needles anywhere near my face."

The doctor folded his arms. He was obviously losing his patience, and would have liked nothing better than to tell Joe off for being stubborn. Professionalism kept him mum, however.

Sophia crossed the room and went to Joe's bedside. Without asking for permission, she took his uninjured hand and squeezed it tightly.

"When my son—Danielle's father—was eleven years old, he fell off a fire escape he should not have been playing on and broke his arm. Needless to say, he was in pain and let everyone know by yowling like an offended cat. I took his hand, just like I've got yours now, and I told him to squeeze whenever the pain or the fear became too much to handle. You do the same thing," Sophia said.

"I can't squeeze your hand. You're old and I might break it," Joe protested.

"You'll squeeze it or I'll slap you with it," Sophia replied.

"Can I proceed?" the doctor asked.

"Yes, just hurry the hell up! I can't believe this, I can't— Ouch! I felt that!"

Ten minutes later, the doctor declared himself satisfied. Joe, on the other hand, couldn't feel either side of his face and was more than a little revolted as he traced his finger along the sutures. Eleven stitches in one cheek, an even dozen in the other. He felt like Frankenstein.

"If you touch them too much, you'll have to wear a head cone," the doctor joked.

"I wouldn't feel like any more of a freak. Are we done yet?" Joe asked.

"Almost. There's just the matter of your hand, the gunshot, and that parallel cut on your left arm," the doctor said.

"You'll numb my hand until it feels dead before you do anything with it, right? 'Cause when Scarecrow punched it, I almost passed out and I'd rather not experience that again."

The doctor was faithful to Joe's wishes. By the time he set about bandaging the maimed hand, it didn't even feel attached to Joe's wrist. The doctor probably could have driven a nail straight through Joe's palm and he wouldn't have noticed.

After finishing with the hand, he carefully bandaged the cabbie's other injuries. Joe was too relieved for words when the doctor finally declared he'd done the best job he could.

"Thanks, doc. I mean it, thanks. That hand…it was driving me crazy. Can I sleep now, though? It feels like my face and hand are already sleeping, and the rest of me's eager to join."

"Yes, you can sleep now. You two, thanks for keeping him calm. You can stay if you want. Make sure he doesn't pick at his sutures," the doctor said. He shook Sophia and Danielle's hands before leaving.

Joe shifted, trying to get into a more comfortable position. Once he found it, he stilled and looked over at Danielle and her grandmother. They had taken the two chairs that sat in the corner of the room.

"Sophia, ma'am, I wish you were my grandmother. You're every bit as great as Danielle said you were."

Sophia was not too old to blush at the compliment. "I'd be happy to adopt you as my grandson. The closest thing to a grandson I currently have is an incredibly wrinkly shar-pei."

"I accept. Let's fill out the paperwork as soon as I wake up. Probably next week sometime."

"We'll be here when you get up, Joe. Don't worry," Danielle said.

It took Joe hardly a minute to nod off. As promised, Danielle and Sophia stayed and watched over him.

With them, as with Stephens and Benson, all was well.

* * *

I simply could not fit Scarecrow in, and maybe that's proper. Let the good guys have their day, and he can have his chapter, too. The next, and finally final chapter will be basically the end of Crane's adventure and an epilogue to close everything right and proper.

Random question of the chapter: are you happy to see that there is one more chapter to go are do you think I'm just wretchedly bad at planning?


	39. Home Sweet Hovel

Thank you all so much for the reviews and the support. You guys have been absolutely incredible and I love you all so much. Thanks for sticking with this story, you made it so much more successful than I ever thought it would be, and I once again thank you for your comments and reviews.

Results for last chapter's question: it seems pretty unanimous. Everyone, including me, was happy to see more.

* * *

He should have been an actor. That was Crane's first thought as he watched the policeman scurry off like the rat he was. The entire escape plan had been about to disintegrate, and nothing but Crane's quick thinking and superb knowledge of how crazy people behaved had saved him.

The cop that was now heading back to his car to report a false alarm had spotted Crane and Schiff acting decidedly shifty and out-of-the-ordinary. Innocent citizens didn't skulk in the shadows of buildings; criminals trying to avoid detection did. The officer had decided to investigate and ask a few questions.

"What are you up to?" the cop asked.

Crane had all of three seconds to think of a plan before he turned to face the cop. He hoped the cop wouldn't instantly recognize his face; if the pig did, there was no use pretending and Crane would just try to gas him. Luckily for Crane and Schiff, no immediate look of recognition crossed the cop's face.

"I'm going to work," Crane said, brandishing his briefcase in the air.

"Uh-huh. And what do you do for a living?" the cop asked.

"I'm the President of the United States of America." At least he hadn't claimed to be Jesus.

"Are you now? And who's that, Mr. President?" The cop pointed at Schiff.

"Don't you watch the news? That's Dick Cheney, my Vice President."

"Okay. Well, you look quite a bit younger in person than on the television. Both of you do, actually," the cop said.

"The cameras add thirty years," Crane said.

"Liberal media bias adds _fifty_," Schiff added.

Crane's surprise at his pet's ability to play along nearly shocked him into breaking character. He recovered before the cop could catch him staring open-mouthed at Schiff.

"Yeah, of course it does. I won't keep you any longer, Mr. President. You either, Mr. Vice President. You're obviously very busy," the cop said.

And that had been that. Crane heard the cop tell his buddy that Bush was taking retirement harder than anyone could have anticipated and Cheney wasn't all that evil looking in person. There was a brief laugh, and then the cruiser sped off to investigate other suspicious individuals.

Crane released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. That had been close, close enough to make his stomach sink with fear and to make his palms sweat. They had to get to the new hideout before another cop drove by. There was no way they would be granted so much luck a second time.

"Dr. Crane, where'd you learn to talk like that?" Schiff asked.

"What are you talking about?" Crane responded sharply. He didn't have time for Schiff's nonsensical questions.

"Like a hick," Schiff said.

"_What?_"

"When you were pretending to be the President, your voice changed. It sounded not like him but maybe kind of close."

"It most certainly did not."

"But it did. It sounded like you were from the Deep South."

Crane was about to retort the absurdity of Thomas' claim when a thought struck him. Though hardly anyone knew this about him—Crane's childhood was as top secret as Area 51—he _had_ come from the South. A pathetic, backwards, misbegotten burg in Georgia, specifically. Even in his youth he'd resisted the redneck accent of his community, and by the time he came to Gotham his voice had been all but devoid of any identifying twang. But he'd had the exposure. Maybe, subconsciously, the thick, cloying accent had rooted like a small tumor.

"I suppose you wouldn't be capable of making up such a story. I don't understand where that accent came from—or why I didn't hear it coming out of my mouth—but I vow to never let it happen again. Now forget it ever occurred and move," Crane said.

"But I liked it. It was funny, and it probably convinced that cop you weren't who he was looking for. Can you teach me to sound like that?" Thomas asked.

"No. I told you to forget it, erase it from your memory."

"Please?"

"If you don't drop it now, I will poison you and leave you here!"

Schiff cringed away, sufficiently chastised. He should have known not to push Dr. Crane, and he deserved to be shouted at. He silently promised to never mention the phantom accent again.

"We've got three blocks to go if memory serves me right. Let's go before we're spotted by anyone else."

The criminal duo hustled the remaining distance; Crane had decided speed was more important than secrecy, so he and Schiff maintained a pace that was just below a run. Schiff, having to bear the burden of his heavy sack, lagged behind a little. Crane snorted at the schizophrenic's foolish choice to pack so much useless crap.

No cops, panhandlers, or other nuisances harassed them, and they arrived safely in front of a building that looked like it had been transported from the smoking aftermath of the Dresden firebombing. Crane looked up at the heavily damaged structure and swore. When he'd last seen it, the building had been in poor shape. It hadn't, however, been the target of arson.

"I don't think this looks safe, Dr. Crane. Someone set it on fire," Schiff pointed out.

"Thank you for that keen observation, Thomas. I might have missed it if I lacked eyes."

"What are we going to do now?"

"We're going to test the structure's integrity."

"How do we do that?"

"We enter, and if it caves down on our heads and buries us, it's unsound."

"Oh. I don't like that."

"Isn't that a shame? You're going first. Come around this way. There's a window here somewhere, and I doubt if anyone bothered to board it up."

Thomas followed Crane along to the side of the burnt building. Sure enough, there was a window frame, empty of all but a few jagged teeth of glass. Crane wondered if the arsonist had also been the one who gleefully smashed the window. He also wondered how much interior damage the building had suffered. The front façade was ruined, but the insides might have been spared if the fire department had acted quickly enough.

Using his briefcase, Crane knocked the remaining glass from the window. The last thing he needed was for Schiff to skewer his clumsy hand and then scream about it for all to hear. Once the window was clear of debris, Crane ordered Thomas to get climbing.

"Alright, Dr. Crane. But if the floor collapses and I end up in the basement, you'll rescue me, won't you?" Schiff asked.

"Of course. Now move."

With all the enthusiasm of a condemned man being led to the gallows, Schiff climbed through the window. His bag of assorted belongings caught on the sill for a moment, and he had to give it a good yank to pull it through. Once he got it free, he began to gingerly test the floor, walking as though he was trying to cross a patch of dangerously thin ice.

"Hop up and down," Crane said.

Schiff gave the doctor a look that suggested Crane had just told him to douse himself with gasoline and then strike a match.

"Do it. The floor may be able to hold you and that sack of yours, but that doesn't mean it will hold our combined weight. This is the only way to find out."

"But Dr. Crane…" Thomas whined.

"Jump like the little rabbit you are!"

Moaning, Schiff leaned forward onto the balls of his feet and then rocked back onto his heels. The floor did not collapse and send him plummeting into the basement. He settled back until his feet were flat on the floor and then looked to Crane to see if he was satisfied.

He wasn't.

"Jump, as in both feet off the ground simultaneously."

Thomas closed his eyes, bent his knees slightly, and hopped about half a centimeter off the floor. He expected to feel the floor drop out beneath him, but it didn't. After a moment of breathless waiting, he opened his eyes to find Crane scowling at him.

"You're useless. Completely and utterly useless. Get away from the window; I'm coming in."

Schiff backed all the way across the room. In his haste, he hadn't even bothered to worry about the floor's possible weakness. It wasn't until he'd backpedaled nearly twenty feet that he realized Crane had scared him into testing for any weak spots.

Once he hoisted himself through the window, Crane took a long look around the room. The entire place smelled of smoke and char—and the smell would no doubt adhere to anyone who entered the building—but the damage seemed concentrated to the front wall. The stairs that led to the second floor looked intact, but they'd need testing, just as the floor had.

"Do we have to stay here, Dr. Crane? It smells awful," Schiff said.

"All the better. The more unpleasant the place, the less likely we'll be bothered. No teenage couple is going to copulate in a building that smells like this," Crane replied.

"That's good, then. I'd have trouble sleeping if I knew people were copulating nearby."

"Let's go upstairs, just to make sure there aren't any other guests we need to evict."

The upstairs revealed no contemporary guests, though it did offer plenty of evidence that multiple people had been in the building not long ago, but likely before the fire. There were several mattresses—most bare but one sheeted—an old sofa that had been scavenged from the dump, a rickety card table, empty cans, cigarette packs and bottles, a cockroach perched atop an empty can, and a pair of rusty but serviceable folding chairs. The building had obviously been serving as the bedroom and kitchen for local homeless people.

"That mattress is mine!" Schiff exclaimed, pointing at the sheeted mattress.

"Take it. I wouldn't go near it until I had washed the sheets with bleach, and then taken a black light to it," Crane said.

"Can't be worse than my bed at Arkham," Thomas said.

While Schiff flopped onto the mattress, Crane examined the sofa. He carefully removed the three cushions, shook them vigorously to dislodge any foreign matter, and then replaced them. He sat down and nothing poked him in the ass.

"No running water, no electricity, no food, but there are insects and old furniture," Crane said.

"I like this mattress. It smells…like perfume," Schiff said.

"That's because prostitutes have been sleeping on it."

"Oh. I'm going to sleep here now, though."

With that, Schiff rolled around until he was comfortable and promptly fell asleep. Crane folded his arms and sighed in frustration. He had been expecting the building to be unpleasant, but this was worse than he'd imagined. Roaches, fire damage, skanky mattresses… He could only hope Schiff didn't pick up some kind of lice from his bed.

"Only one day. That's all I have to endure. Tonight, we'll find someplace better, a place I can set up a lab and return to business."

Inside Crane's head, something stirred, stretched incorporeal limbs, and grinned. Scarecrow had awoken, and for him, nightfall couldn't come soon enough. He was well-rested and eager to resume the hunt. The cabbie and the bitch might have escaped, might have humiliated him, but whoever he got his hands on next would not be so lucky.

Halfway across Gotham, another dark entity was stirring. Zsasz came slowly back to consciousness. It was a laborious and painful process that only became less pleasant the closer it came to completion. As light filled his eyes, pain rushed into his head, filling it until it seemed ready to explode like an over-filled balloon.

"Pretty swan," Zsasz muttered.

"Bastard's awake."

Zsasz turned his head to look for the source of the voice. The simple motion made the pain in his skull triple. For his agony, he was rewarded with the sight of a pair of nicely polished black shoes and blue pant legs. He was eye-level with someone's shiny shoes; that meant he was on the floor, though whose floor he couldn't begin to guess.

"Where?" the killer asked.

"Where are you? In a holding cell."

That made perfect sense. And it was something of a relief. The way that oafish cop had looked at him before punching him in the side of the head, Zsasz thought it was a marvel he ever woke up at all. There had been murder in the man's eyes—Zsasz had killed enough to know what murder looked like, how the facial features contorted and the eyes narrowed—but dumb luck, or too many witnesses, had kept him from finishing the deed.

On the subject of his friends—and that gorilla he was going to bleed out should even the slimmest sliver of opportunity arise—the butcher wondered what had become of his lovely detective. The wounds he'd inflicted on the cop had been severe, but perhaps not mortal. Zsasz had intended to make the slashed throat the _coup de grace_, but he'd been rudely interrupted.

"Is my detective dead?"

There were several sharp intakes of breath, and a few swears. Zsasz realized he was surrounded. And those surrounding him were not happy.

"No, the doctors think he'll be fine. And you'd better pray they're right. If he doesn't make it, neither do you. You think you can hurt one of us and get away with it, you've got another thing coming, psycho."

Police camaraderie—a bond just slightly weaker than the one that attached mother to child—was a beautiful thing. As long as it didn't make _every single last damned cop_ in Gotham your worst enemy. Zsasz sighed. He hadn't expected his bad behavior to be punished this severely.

After steeling himself for the pain, Zsasz turned his head to the left. He could see two pairs of legs. If he could sit up—a trial run told him he couldn't quite yet—he was sure he'd see another cop or two in front of him. He was like a caged zoo animal, and everyone was crowded around his enclosure, watching and trying to taunt him into doing something scary. Too bad he didn't feel like giving them any kind of show. They all no doubt would've loved a reason to march in and take their batons to him.

Like zoo patrons that encountered nothing but sleeping animals, the cops eventually drifted away from the cell. They did have paperwork to file, leads to run, streets to patrol, and other police business to attend to. As much as they would have loved to stand around and threaten Zsasz all day, Gotham's insanely high crime rate kept them occupied.

Left alone except for one officer who must have been assigned to guard him, Zsasz decided to try and reclaim the painless darkness of unconsciousness. He closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind of everything, especially the brain-deep, throbbing agony.

The Zen technique had barely begun to work when a sound like a bell rang. Zsasz's eyes opened. The bell-like sound came again. The killer frowned and turned his head toward the noise.

The cop was nonchalantly tapping the cell's bars with his baton. When he saw Zsasz glaring at him, he grinned.

"You've got a head injury, maybe a concussion. You shouldn't sleep," the cop said. His grin transmogrified into a sneer. "It would be a shame if you passed out and never woke up."

Yes, Zsasz thought to himself, that would be an awful shame. If he were to die in his sleep, so many people would be forced to live out the full remainder of their wretched lives. So many marks would go unmade, so many throats uncut. That would be true injustice.

"Of course, officer, thank you for the concern."

The sneer fell off the cop's face so quickly it might have been lopped off with a sword. Now it was Zsasz's turn to smile.

While Zsasz lay on the floor of his holding cell, Scarecrow sprawled out on his couch. Crane had spent the last half hour shouting at him and berating him for being sloppy, lazy and stupid. Scarecrow had borne the insults of his uppity half with good humor, which only made Crane angrier. When the reprimands had failed in their purpose, Crane had mentally stormed off in disgust, leaving Scarecrow in charge of the body. Scarecrow had been more than happy to seize control.

Unlike Crane, who was worried about bugs, body fluids, and the diseases both could transmit, Scarecrow feared neither the couch nor the _cucarachas_. He made himself at home among the dirt and the disuse. Sure, the building wasn't the best place he'd ever camped, but it beat Arkham by a country mile.

Since there was no electricity and no gadgets that ran off electricity, Schiff was asleep, and Crane hadn't even been smart enough to grab a single bloody book, Scarecrow had no choice but to entertain himself. That was alright, though. He had plenty of thoughts to go through and a few schemes to concoct.

It was of no surprise that Scarecrow's thoughts circled around a certain cabbie. Joe was impossible not to think about. He was the big, stubborn, foul-mouthed elephant in the room.

Finding the cabbie would be no problem. Scarecrow had a name and a physical description and he knew what Joe did for a living. In the coming days, Joe would be the hot topic of Gotham's news networks and papers. Maybe he'd even be a guest on _Nancy Grace_. With all that publicity, tracking down the one that got away would be simple.

So very, very simple. He could show up in Joe's apartment, ambush the oblivious cabbie, and then jab a needle filled with fear toxin into his neck. He could watch the cabbie lose his mind, scream and convulse and finally die. The idea of revenge tasted sweeter than maple candy in Scarecrow's mouth.

"Let him go," Scarecrow said, but the words that came from his mouth weren't his own. Crane, the prissy little fellow, had a different opinion, it seemed.

"I never want to see that bastard again. Never, Scarecrow, never. You can have a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker for all I care, but no more cabbies. Never again," Crane said.

"But we can break him yet, Johnny. He's hurt, we hurt him badly, and he's vulnerable," Scarecrow protested.

"No. He won his freedom. That's it. We both had ample opportunities to kill him, but he escaped us. I have enough honor to accept that, and I think you do, too."

There was silence from Scarecrow's side. He hated Crane's reasoning. Hated it like he hated Crane's great-grandmother. But, damn it all, he accepted it.

"Alright, Johnny. But tonight, you will let me have my fun with whoever I choose," Scarecrow said.

Crane accepted the deal. Scarecrow could terrorize and murder his victim of choice if that was the therapy he wanted.

Scarecrow relaxed into the sofa's worn cushions. He had the whole day to be bored, but as soon as the sun set, he would don his proper face and see if he couldn't soothe his raging frustration. Gotham was a big city, with millions of potential victims. Finding a playmate that didn't bite or shoot him would not be a challenge.

He'd been beaten once, but that didn't change things. He was still the brilliant Master of Fear and he'd make sure Gotham knew that. The story of Joe the Cabbie might give the citizens a little hope, but the Scarecrow was prepared to show them that fear trumped all else.

* * *

That, for all intents and purposes, is the story. However, there will be an epilogue. Why? Because, as my lovely reviewer jazz-sparks pointed out, 39 is a stupid number to stop on. Also, I love the hell out of all these guys and gals, and I don't want to say goodbye just yet.

So random question for the chapter: who was your favorite character? OC or canon, you can choose from either.


	40. And in the End

Well, everyone, this is it. The end. The grand finale. _El fin_. Thank you all for reading and for your reviews. I loved writing this fic, and I hope you all enjoyed reading it. With your help, it went further than I ever dared to imagine. I hope this last chapter pleases you and provides a fitting close.

The favorite characters sure were spread across the board. Schiff, Crane, and Joe were all in close contention.

* * *

Joe was a heavy sleeper, but by no means an immobile one. Within ten minutes of falling asleep, he shifted his position twice. He went from lying on his back with his arms resting at his sides to lying on his side with his left arm pinned beneath his body and his right arm flopped on the bed. The position didn't look comfortable—Joe's left arm was probably suffering poor circulation—but Joe didn't stay posed for long.

Danielle watched, mildly fascinated by Joe's erratic, unconscious movements. She'd had very few opportunities to watch people just sleep and perform no other tricks. Of her half-dozen or so boyfriends, she'd only had the chance to watch one of them sleep next to her, and he'd been a rock; he hadn't moved, hadn't snored, and had hardly seemed alive except for the breath that whistled in his nose. With only one young man's sleeping habits in her experience, Danielle couldn't decide whether Joe's restlessness or her ex-boyfriend's stillness was the norm.

"I bet he wakes up every morning to find the pillows and blankets on the floor."

Danielle and Sophia looked towards the door and were surprised to see not a nurse or a doctor but a cop standing there. Instantly, Danielle recognized the officer as the one who'd saved them from being murdered in the taxi. The cop didn't enter the room any farther without asking for permission.

"I won't bother him; he definitely needs his rest more than I need his statement. But if you wouldn't mind answering a few questions," Montoya said.

"I don't mind at all, officer. You pretty much saved our lives—thanks for taking down that psycho, by the way, it was awesome—and I'll tell you anything you want," Danielle said.

Montoya now entered the room and produced a small spiral-bound notepad from her pocket.

"I've already got a basic summary of what happened, and I won't make you relive any of the ghastly details. Can you tell me where exactly you were held? If not an address, then a description of the building?" Montoya asked.

"I don't know the address and I never really saw the front of the building. But I know it was an apartment building, at least three stories tell, and not all that far from where you found us. The room Scarecrow kept us in was on the third floor, and it was painted white. We entered the building through an emergency exit door that led out into an alley. And there was a dumpster really close by. The Scarecrow forced Joe to park in front of the dumpster, and Joe was worried the rats would eat his seats and wiring."

"Excellent. We should be able to find the building now. Three stories, alley access, and a dumpster filled with rats," Montoya said, scribbling in the notebook.

"Officer, uh, I left some stuff in the building. Can I get it back somehow?" Danielle asked.

"Of course. Just define "stuff" and I'll make sure it's collected and kept safe."

"Joe picked me up at the airport, and I had my suitcase with me. When the Scarecrow dragged us to his hideout, he made me bring my suitcase. We were in way too much of a hurry to grab it when we escaped, and all my clothes are inside."

"Suitcase filled with clothes. It will find its way back to you, I promise," Montoya said.

"Oh! I left more important stuff in the taxi!" Danielle exclaimed.

Montoya had been planning to ask about certain items found in the taxi, but since Danielle had raised the issue, now seemed like the best time.

"If you're talking about the card and the gift, those have been recovered. I've been kept in the loop," Montoya said, pointing to her radio. "But can you tell me who the gun belongs to?"

"The gun? That's the damn Scarecrow's. Joe got hold of it and threatened the Scarecrow with it. That's how we got away," Danielle said.

"Mystery solved. I didn't expect it to belong to you or Joe, but I had to ask. As for the other items, I can have them dropped off here if you'd like," Montoya said.

That was excellent news. If the police could deliver her grandmother's birthday gifts to the hospital, Danielle could present them only half a day late.

"Those presents are for my grandmother, who's incidentally sitting right here next to me. She's 80 years and one day old today," Danielle said.

"Happy birthday. I'll get on the radio as soon as I'm done with my questions and get someone to bring your gifts over."

Montoya ran through a list of expected questions—what was the Scarecrow wearing and things of that nature—before wrapping up with an open-ended question.

"Is there anything else you remember that might be helpful? Anything at all."

Danielle paused. There did seem to be one enormous topic that Montoya hadn't asked about at all: Scarecrow's weird little accomplice.

"He wasn't alone. The Scarecrow had a lackey who I think was a schizophrenic; Scarecrow called him a "useless schizophrenic," or something like that. Even if he's not schizophrenic, he was strange and obviously not right in the head. He wore two different color socks and couldn't stand still," Danielle said.

"Now _that_ is an important detail. Can you give me a quick description of this guy, and then I'll let you be," Montoya said.

Danielle gave the best description she could, careful to mention Schiff's odd socks and shoes, and Montoya faithfully recorded the details. Once Danielle's memory ran dry, Montoya closed the notebook and thanked Danielle vigorously. The officer promised that the police would do everything in their power to bring the Scarecrow to justice and then exited the room. Once outside so she wouldn't disturb Joe, Montoya got on the radio and asked whoever was currently in possession of Sophia's birthday paraphernalia to bring it to the Metropolitan Hospital.

Half an hour later, a handsome young cop that Sophia showed an untoward amount of interest in delivered the card and present. He handed them directly to Sophia, who beamed like a girl who'd just met her favorite teen singing sensation. Danielle watched the transaction with great embarrassment. There was now no room for doubt in her mind; Grandma Sophia was a cougar.

The cop departed after tipping his hat to Sophia. After he was gone, Danielle glared at her grandmother.

"What's that look for? I might be too old to touch, but not too old to look," Sophia said.

Danielle's jaw dropped. "Next year, I'll get you a subscription to _Playgirl_ for your birthday."

"That sounds lovely. But what did you get me this year?" Sophia asked, looking at the small wrapped box.

"Exotic lingerie," Danielle muttered.

"I doubt it."

Sophia placed the box on her lap and tore open the envelop that held the card. She pulled out the card and laughed.

"Dinosaurs did not roam the Earth in my youth, and even if they did, I would ride a bigger, meaner one than that," Sophia said, examining the image on the face of the card. A cavewoman, brandishing a cane and dentures, was riding high in the saddle atop a Hadrosaur. According to the script below the picture, senior citizens had been driving against the flow of traffic since 100 million BC.

"I promise the present has nothing to do with dinosaurs."

Sophia unwrapped the box. "This will make the jazzercise even better."

A sleek red iPod sat in the box. Sophia picked it up and examined it. For a woman who'd been born decades before even the largest, most clunky computers were built, she knew her way around modern technology remarkably well.

"I figured if you could use a cell phone and computer, an iPod wouldn't be a problem. And you could fill it with all that music that makes your cat's hair stand on end, and listen to it without torturing him," Danielle said.

"Thank you very much. It's wonderful. It's a hell of a lot better than the socks my neighbor gave me," Sophia said. She hugged her granddaughter.

Danielle and Sophia carried on casual conversation for the next two hours. During those two hours, Joe moved a total of sixteen times. A nurse popped in briefly to check on Joe; he grunted once and slept through her quick examination. A visitor who was obviously lost wandered by the door three times before he was sent down the right hall. All in all, it was very uneventful.

So uneventful, in fact, that Danielle started to feel tired. She's slept for about five hours on the flight from Seattle, but the night's activities were starting to catch up to her. Sleep was tugging at her, making her eyelids heavy and making even the poorly cushioned hospital chair comfortable. If she was going to resist its tricks, she needed coffee.

"I need coffee or I'm going to fall asleep on your shoulder and start drooling," Danielle said.

"There was a coffee machine down in the lobby, by the vending machines. I'll come down and get a cup, too. Maybe I'll get a pack of cookies while I'm at it," Sophia said.

"No, somebody has to be here in case Joe wakes up. I'll get your coffee and cookies, if you'll give me a dollar for the machine. How do you want your coffee?" Danielle asked.

"A third sugar, a third cream, and a third coffee. Same way I've had it since I was thirteen," Sophia said.

Danielle took Sophia's dollar, and left the room wondering how her grandmother's body had survived the daily assaults of so much sugar and caffeine. She rode the elevator down to the first floor and found the coffee and snack machines. Standing in front of one machine, and kicking it, was a broad-shouldered man. Danielle wondered if approaching the coffee pot was safe at that moment; the irate guy was saying some rather uncouth words to the vending machine.

"Either gimme my damn dollar back or gimme my damn Snickers. Piece of crap."

Banging once on the machine and achieving nothing, the man turned away from it in disgust. He noticed Danielle standing off a ways.

"It ate my money," the man said.

"Oh," Danielle replied.

The man sighed. "One more thing to really make my day. First, I get to work half an hour late. Then I hear Stephens has this serial killer hunting party going on. Course my partner wants in, and I don't argue with her. That went over great, let me tell you. You ever seen somebody get stabbed? Well, I did and I never want to see it again. Goddamn nutty town and its freaks," the man said.

"So you're a cop?" Danielle asked.

"Yeah, Detective Harvey Bullock. Badge number three-five something, something. I'm here for my fellow officer. He's the guy that got stabbed. Who're you here for?" Bullock asked.

"Joe. He and I spent the night keeping the Scarecrow company."

"No shit? You're her? What did Montoya say your name was? Daphne?"

"Danielle. And yeah, I'm her. I'm keeping the vigil, but I need coffee to continue," Danielle said.

"Stephens—the stabbed guy—was looking for you. It was his case and he was determined to solve it. He was real happy when he heard you were found," Bullock said.

"I hope he gets better."

"He will. Look at me, telling you all my tragic crap. I'm going to go find out how the hell I can get my dollar back. Don't feed that machine." Bullock stalked off towards the front desk.

As Bullock walk away, Danielle was struck with a thought that made her giggle. The detective she'd just met had to be the law-enforcement version of Joe.

Danielle retrieved the coffee and cookies without losing her dollar to the devious machine. She took the goods back upstairs, where she and Sophia continued their watching uninterrupted, except for coffee breaks and trips to the bathroom, for another four hours.

Six hours after falling asleep, Joe opened his eyes. He blinked a few times, though that did nothing to clear the glazed look from his eyes or to make him appear any more alert. Slowly, he undid the sheet that had become tangled around his body, and managed to get his feet on the floor. He shuffled like a zombie or a sleep-walker towards the bathroom, paying no attention to Danielle and Sophia, who were seated only feet away.

The bathroom door opened and shut without Joe saying a word. Danielle and her grandmother exchanged glances.

A few minutes later, Joe shuffled back out in the same oblivious state. He again failed to acknowledge the women, and crossed the room silently. He crawled back into bed and was dead to the world seconds later.

It would be another four hours before Joe finally came around entirely. This time, when he opened his eyes, he instantly took note of Danielle and Sophia. They were eating sandwiches a nurse had delivered out of pity. Joe's stomach growled. He hadn't eaten in 24 hours, possibly the longest he'd ever gone without food.

"What kind of sandwiches are those? Never mind, I don't care. Can I have some?"

Joe had already eaten through half a bologna and cheese sandwich by the time a doctor came in to ask how he was feeling now that he'd finally woken up. Through a mouthful of food, Joe said that he was fine, he was hungry as hell, and he wanted out of the hospital because he needed a beer and such things were not allowed on the premises.

"I don't know if beer is the best thing for you to have right now," the doctor said.

"When you've gone through what I've gone through, then you can tell me not to drink. But no man in the history of the world has ever needed or deserved a beer like I do right now. So, chop-chop on the release papers, doc. I want to go home," Joe said.

"I would much rather keep you the rest of the night."

"No way, no how. I'm going to go home, get buzzed, and then do something I haven't done in months. Call my wife. My ex-wife, whatever. I'm going to call her. Discharge me ASAP, okay?"

"Are you officially ignoring my desire to keep you overnight?" the doctor asked.

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Fine. I'll get a waiver you can sign, and I'll release you AMA: against medical advice."

Once the proper paperwork was signed and the hospital's ass was sufficiently covered, Joe was allowed to leave. His own clothes, due to "contamination with bodily fluids" had been incinerated; all that was saved was his shoes and socks. Faced with either streaking or keeping his hated hospital gown, Joe grudgingly put on his salvaged footwear and kept the gown. Sophia patted him on the back and promised to loan him an old blanket she kept in her car trunk.

"No, really, I don't need your blanket. Offering to take me home is enough. Do you want a beer when we get there?" Joe asked.

"I think five cups of coffee is all the damage I should do to my old body in one day," Sophia said.

"Alright. I'd give you gas money but…"

"Don't worry about it. You saved my granddaughter's life. The least I can do is take you home."

The three of them took the elevator downstairs, Danielle and Sophia standing in front of Joe to keep prying eyes from seeing him in his gown. Luckily, they only shared the elevator with a nurse who didn't seem to care. Once they were on the bottom floor, Joe hustled best he could, lest some poor injured soul see him in the knee-length "dress" and suffer a negative reaction.

Sophia's car was parked towards the front of the lot, so the happy trio didn't have to cover much pavement. Joe took the back seat, Danielle rode shotgun, and Sophia claimed her spot as the driver. Danielle buckled her seatbelt as soon as her butt touched the seat. Before Joe could even reach for his, the car shot off like a torpedo.

"Tell me your address and I'll have you there in no time," Sophia said.

Joe, terrified that he'd found the one person who drove faster and exhibited more balls than he did, choked out his address while he desperately buckled his belt. Sophia burned rubber and Joe prayed to any saint or god he'd ever heard of. Danielle was only mildly harried; she remembered that he grandmother fancied herself the female version of Evel Knievel.

In astounding time, Joe found himself outside his apartment. Sophia gave him her phone number, and forced him to promise he'd call if he needed anything ever. Danielle added the number for her apartment in Seattle, since her cell phone was MIA and she never expected to see it again. Joe gave them both his number and after waving and crying, Sophia drove off.

With the key to his apartment back in his taxi, Joe retrieved the spare from the small box he kept buried under the half-dead shrub in front of the building. He hurried inside with it before his neighbors could catch him in the dreaded gown.

Safely inside his little apartment, Joe went directly to the fridge. He grabbed two beers, reconsidered, and put one back. He wanted to have a cathartic chat with his ex-wife, not sob drunkenly at her about being abducted by a maniac and experimented on. He doubted if she would appreciate that after six months of total silence.

Joe popped the tab and took a long swallow. He sighed and refused to put it off any longer. He picked up the telephone, wandered into the living room with it, and dug the number out of his memory.

The phone rang twice and then a woman's voice said, "Hello?"

"Wendy?"

"Yes. Is that…is that you, Joe?"

"Uh-huh."

"You're on the news, you know. CNN. I couldn't believe it, but there can't be that many Joe Savoca's that drive taxis. They said you and a woman had been kidnapped by one of those costume criminals and that you were in the hospital. But this is your home number on my caller ID."

"I hate hospitals, so I left. I'm all stitched up and-" Joe dissolved into the sobbing mess he'd tried to avoid. His wife followed suit.

For the rest of the night, both of them cried, reminisced, exorcised old regrets and grievances, and made up for lost time.

As Joe and Wendy came to ultimate peace with each other, Danielle ate birthday cake. Sophia's neighbors had chipped in and bought her a small cake, as well as a few cheap presents. Garbanzo, Sophia's overweight tabby, mewled and did a figure-eight around Danielle's legs.

Spitting in the face of such soul-enriching activities as reconciliation via telephone and eating cake, Scarecrow donned his mask and gathered enough fear toxin to destroy the minds of a dozen men. The night was dark, nearly moonless, and it would provide plenty of cover. He would work through the pain and shame of his failures by basking in the wretched screams of his new successes.

By the time dawn came creeping, would Scarecrow be completely rid of his hate over Joe and Danielle's audacity to escape him? Probably not. Would he crawl in the window come morning utterly exhausted and completely satisfied? Maybe. Would the entire city know the Master of Fear had been a very busy boy, sowing his chemical terror and reminding everyone of his power? That was plausible.

THE END

And here's bonus material!

Detective Bullock never did get his dollar back.

Stephens recovered completely, and he and Benson spent an entire Saturday watching old cartoons. He enjoyed it immensely, though he pretended not to.

Zsasz was shipped back to Arkham, where he discovered nobody gave a crap about his scars, as the Joker's were much more interesting. He was not pleased.

Thomas Schiff continued to work for the Scarecrow, and spent a good deal of his time terrified Scarecrow would, out of boredom, experiment on him for fun.

Joe's taxi was given a new pair of tires, and Joe loved it more than ever.

Danielle's suitcase was returned to her, and Scarecrow did not steal any of her bras.

THE END (seriously)

Thank you, everyone, for your continued support and reviews. Without your comments, there's no way in hell I could have written this 100,000 word behemoth. What a long strange trip it's been, and I thank you all from the bottom of my heart for taking the journey with me.

I have no specific random question, but anything you'd like to ask or talk about, feel free to write it in the review. If you're signed in, I'll be sure to PM you.

I love you all, and I expect to have something (hopefully a new chapter for _Revenge of the Nerds_) posted in the near future. Until then, Night Monkey signing off.


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